


Black Wings Unfurled

by Sulpicius



Series: Dark Skies and Dragonfire [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Banter, F/M, Retelling of Skyrim, Romance, Slow Burn, The Dragonborn is actually a mage for once
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27974612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulpicius/pseuds/Sulpicius
Summary: Serana, Daughter of Coldharbour, and Alexien, a mage formerly of Winterhold, are eager to continue their travels and enjoy their well earned rest in peace. But Fate, and the Daedric Lord thereof, have other plans for them. When dragons return and Skyrim erupts into civil war, they have to find a way to hold everything together – including themselves.Part 2 of "Dark Skies and Dragonfire," following immediately on the events of "Darkness with Light," which I recommend you read first. Part 1 covered the Dawnguard story arc; this one goes through the main questlines; later, Part 3 will deal with the events of Dragonborn.Lore-friendly, but with lots of world-building.
Relationships: Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Serana, Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Serana, Serana (Elder Scrolls)/Original Character(s)
Series: Dark Skies and Dragonfire [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975708
Comments: 204
Kudos: 131





	1. The Dragonborn Isn't Coming

Serana smelled the blood, before she heard the noise.

She was walking south along the road towards Helgen. Alexien had turned back towards Riverwood earlier that day, but Serana had traveled on. Now that her father was defeated, and they were safe, and the weight of the world no longer pressed down on their shoulders, she was eager to see all that there was to see. Let Alexien do his good deed for the day; meanwhile she would explore somewhere she had never been before, and watch the sun set behind mountains she had never seen before.

Then, in the evening twilight, just when the last rays of daylight were fading and Serana had stopped to look, there came to her the scent of blood.

A lot of blood. Somewhere off the road, a little distance away towards the east.

She hesitated, but only for a moment. Almost of their own will her feet left the road and trod the tall grass, and she snuck off to see what was wrong.

Serana passed under the forest canopy, and heard at once the sounds that had been deadened by the trees: sounds of battle, the ring of steel on steel, shouts of anger and cries of pain, the scuffle of armored feet; the noises of men fighting and men dying.

She should turn back. But something drew her on. Curiosity? She crept forwards.

It was only a little further on that she found the battle. Someone had walked right into an ambush. Around a clearing was drawn a ring of soldiers, wearing the distinctive livery of the Empire. Archers stood on high ground, protected by a wall of swordsmen in front. But Serana had arrived only to see the end of the fighting, the clean-up action. The bodies of men in sky-blue were scattered around the clearing, pierced with many arrows; those still alive had broken and were darting here and there in every direction – but wherever they fled they met the swordsmen, who killed or captured at will. The Nords (they were all Nords, Serana noticed) in sky-blue were throwing down their arms; but some were cut down as they surrendered, while others had their hands bound and eyes blindfolded.

It was horrible, but somehow also fascinating. Serana had never seen war before, the regular war of mortal against mortal, but realized now that she had to be watching part of Skyrim's civil war. The Imperials were obvious; the Nords must be Ulfric’s men. So something had finally happened to start up the conflict in earnest. And it didn’t seem to be going well for Ulfric.

If Serana hadn’t been distracted by these thoughts, she would have noticed the pair of soldiers before they came upon her. But suddenly a pair of armored hands seized her by the shoulders, and another pair held fast her right arm.

"Another one, sir!" said a harsh voice. Even surprised, Serana noticed how foreign was the accent.

"Stormcloak?" asked a woman in heavy armor.

"No uniform, sir. But a Nord."

"Toss her with the others; we’ll sort them out at Helgen."

Serana looked around, and cursed her own negligence. She had crept too close, and the ring of soldiers scouring the woods for fleeing rebels – Stormcloaks? – had got lucky and chanced upon her. She had let her guard down. On any normal night she would never have let herself be discovered.

She could still fight her way out, certainly. The two soldiers who held her were strong, but she was stronger. Even without her magic she could probably toss them aside like dolls, tear through everything in her path, and be free.

But it would be bloody. She preferred not to kill her way through a group of people to whom she bore no personal malice, just because they were unlucky enough to stumble upon her. Not when they were just doing their jobs, and certainly not when they were fighting against Ulfric. Besides, Alexien had spoken of the Empire with some fondness; he probably wouldn’t want her to murder its soldiery if it could be avoided.

Not to mention the fact that if these men saw her tossing aside fully armed legionaries with her bare hands, they would almost certainly realize there was a vampire on the loose.

And again, the officer had mentioned that they were taking her to Helgen. That was where she planned to meet Alexien anyway.

So, the best solution was to let them take her there, and find an easier, less bloody way to escape later, when there were fewer soldiers around.

Serana bowed her head meekly and allowed them to bind her hands. Still, there was no sense in being uncomfortable. She locked eyes with one of the soldiers, just for a moment, and he knotted the rope around her hands loosely.

Then they blindfolded her. She felt the beginning of unthinking panic; but she could hear and smell better than mortals could see, and forced herself to be calm. She felt them take her dagger and empty her pockets of potion bottles.

The soldiers marched her along, none too gently. At some point she was joined with another group of prisoners, and there was much stumbling and cursing as the Imperials tried to arrange them into an organized column. One man tried to run – Serana heard light feet scrambling over fallen leaves and twigs – then there was the twang of a bow, the smell of blood, and silence.

Then they were hurried on. After perhaps an hour the column stopped, and the prisoners were jostled around. Serana felt herself being guided up into something, probably a cart or a wagon, along with several others; then their feet were shackled and the blindfolds removed.

She was indeed in a cart; as soon as she noticed this, the driver gave a cry and the horses started. They were traveling south on the road, presumably towards Helgen; that was good, at least.

Serana looked around. A line of legionaries marched on either side of the carts, and behind and in front of each rode mounted soldiers with bows. Not a good time to try for escape. She turned her eyes to the other prisoners in the cart with her.

There were three. One, she noticed at once, was Ulfric, bound and gagged. The second was a warrior still spattered with blood; the third was a small man dressed in rags.

"Good, you're awake," said the warrior quietly. "I was afraid these Imperial bastards had mistreated you. How fare you, sister?"

Serana raised an eyebrow. "Sister?"

"We're all brothers and sisters now," he said. "My name is Ralof."

"Katrin."

She could have sworn that Ulfric's eyes flitted in her direction; but when she looked closer, he was staring straight ahead.

"Fucking Stormcloaks," muttered the other man. "You just had to stir up the Empire. Skyrim was fine until you came along."

"Aye, fine except for the Thalmor death-squads abducting people off the street."

"The what?" asked Serana, startled.

"You been living under a rock, Katrin?"

"I try not to get involved in politics. I know about the Thalmor – but death-squads?"

"You haven't seen the elves all over Skyrim? Anyone they think is a threat, anyone they think is loyal to Skyrim, anyone who worships Talos – they're taken, and never seen again."

"Then don't go around shouting 'I worship Talos' and daring them to do something about it," said the other man. "It wasn't a problem until the Butcher of Markarth made it one."

"Watch your tone," growled Ralof. "That's the High King you're slandering."

He started to reply – then recognized Ulfric, and paled. "Kynareth have mercy, it's… it's _you._ "

"I said watch your tone!"

"Quiet back there!" shouted one of the soldiers.

The man looked around in a panic. "Gods, if you're here… where are they taking us?" he whispered.

"To Sovngarde. Where are you from, thief?"

"What do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

Silence; then, in a small voice: "Rorikstead. I'm… Lokir of Rorikstead."

"Whatever you were before tonight, Lokir of Rorikstead, now you're one of us," said Ralof. "Die well, and we'll breakfast together in Shor's Hall."

How long they'd been on the road, Serana didn't know; but the eastern sky was starting to lighten. She wondered if Alexien knew something was wrong yet, or if he was looking for her. She might have to try escaping sooner than she'd expected. But there were still soldiers all around. There'd be a better opportunity later on; the prisoners would have to be sorted and catalogued, probably separated, and there would be some kind of juridical process, and amid all that confusion she'd have her chance.

"And you?" asked Ralof. "Where are you from, Katrin?"

"High Rock," Serana answered without hesitation.

"Then you've come to Skyrim at an unlucky time, sister."

"I… didn't think there was any fighting yet."

"There wasn't," he said bitterly. "Legion was happy to sit in Solitude and wait. They're mostly Nords, and weren't eager to fight their kindred. But the Empire's elven masters brought up another legion from Cyrodiil, and they're the bastards who ambushed us tonight. All Imperials and Bretons, not a Nord of Skyrim among them – and the Thalmor are with them to make sure they behave."

"The Thalmor are here?"

"Aye, saw them myself, when the fighting started. Then they ran and hid and let others do their dirty work for them. But they'll be there at Helgen to gloat. Pitting the Empire against Skyrim, watching us all kill each other when we should be turning our steel against _them_ – I bet the damn elves are laughing into their silk sleeves."

"You know, my husband's a Breton," said Serana. "They all have elven blood."

"Wayrest or Daggerfall?" Ralof demanded suddenly.

"I – Wayrest. What does it matter?"

"Because Daggerfall's thrown in with the Dominion; the men of Wayrest at least remember they're men – mostly. Not that those wizard princelings'll do much about it. No, it's all up to Skyrim, like it always is."

Serana looked ahead down the road. The sun was dawning, and by its light she could see the stone towers of Helgen. "Why hate the Thalmor so much?" she asked. "This isn't just politics; it's personal."

"Because anyone who isn't an elf isn't a person to them," said Ralof. "All humans are good for is grinding down beneath their heels. I'm not saying Skyrim's perfect, but a lot of the Dark Elves have chosen to make their home here, haven't they? Lot of them in Windhelm. Not a lot of humans in Alinor – except prisoners and slaves."

"Yes, I've seen how welcome the Dunmer are made in Windhelm," said Serana.

Ulfric's eyes glanced again in her direction. Ralof had the decency to look ashamed, and said nothing.

The caravan reached Helgen, and passed under a great gate of stone and iron. Archers lined the ramparts; Serana even saw a battlemage on patrol. Still not a good time to try for escape. No, that would probably be later, when, in the words of the Imperial officer, the time came to "sort out" the prisoners.

But – when they entered the city, they passed by a line of mounted officials who watched them gravely. One man, a general, gave a gesture of curt command, and Serana heard him mutter to himself, "Let's get this over with." Beside and around him was a group of tall Altmer in robes of black silk interwoven with gold. A woman who was clearly their leader sneered and said something to the general. He did not reply and kept his gaze fixed ahead, but his knuckles tightened over the reins.

"See? Thalmor," spat Ralof. "Even brought their mages to watch. Must be scared of a bunch of prisoners in chains."

"But that's Elenwen," said Lokir, shocked out of despair.

"Elenwen?" asked Serana. She started to feel uneasy.

"Thalmor 'ambassador' to Skyrim," Ralof answered, frowning. "Really head inquisitor. Elves must just want this done."

"Wait!" called one of the Thalmor – he was obviously a wizard – suddenly. The convoy halted, and the Altmer strode towards Serana. He looked her over, then grabbed her jaw and forced her head left and right, examining her closely. Then he stepped back.

"This one is a mage," he told the soldiers. "Probably a necromancer."

"Mage? Ain't seen her cast anything."

"Then she's a great deal more intelligent than you. What precautions have you taken against her magic?"

"How d'you know she's a mage?"

The wizard gave him a patronizing look and did not answer. He held out a hand, and another Thalmor passed him a potion bottle.

He uncorked it, seized Serana's hair with one hand and pulled her head back, and with the other forced the bottle against her lips.

Serana wanted to tear his hand off with her bare fangs – but she couldn't stop her mouth from opening in a reflexive snarl. The potion passed her teeth and trickled down her throat. It was so cold it burned.

At once she felt her magicka fizzle and fade. Magebane – a magicka poison. Serana tore her head free and spat, but it was too late. The Elf gave her a look of cruel satisfaction, stepped back, and waved the cart on.

Serana was still trying to get the taste out of her mouth when the cart jolted to a stop again. She looked around – and saw the chopping block, next to a black-hooded man wielding an executioner's axe.

Soldiers started unlocking the prisoners' shackles. "Everyone out! Form a line!" shouted an Imperial officer.

"But… what about a trial?" asked Lokir.

The officer grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him off the cart, and threw him to the ground. "I said, form a line!"

"No – you can't! I'm a citizen too!"

Lokir scrambled to his feet and started to run – but a bow twanged, and an arrow took him in the back. He lay choking as blood filled his lung. The officer turned to the other prisoners. "Anyone else feel like disobeying orders? Now get down and get in line!"

Serana tried to spit the taste of the potion out again. She felt the beginnings of panic. If the Imperials were just going to kill everyone they caught, then it was time to run, opportunity or no. And she'd have to have a chat with Alexien about what the Empire was really like.

She rose to her feet – and stumbled. Something about her balance was wrong. She tried again to stand, wavered, overcorrected, fell to her knees.

Ralof helped her to her feet, and kept her steady. "Fucking Thalmor," he growled. "Won't even let you die in peace. No telling what was in that potion."

"Silver," muttered Serana. She didn't care if he realized what she meant. "They added silver – it's sometimes used as a preservative. That's why the poison worked on me. They didn't even know – just sheer dumb luck."

Ralof wasn't listening. He was watching Ulfric. Elenwen and that Imperial general had ridden close and were saying something to him; Ulfric stared back impassively, one eyebrow raised as if in boredom. Serana had to admit, whatever she thought of him and his cause, that he stood upright and proud, and looked every inch what a hero should be.

The Imperials did their work efficiently. While they ordered the prisoners into a line – Serana, somehow, ended up second from the front, just ahead of Ralof and Ulfric – she had a moment to consider her situation.

It wasn't great.

Her magicka was starting to come back, but not fast enough to help her out of this, not in the sunlight. At this point the silver was probably doing more damage than the actual poison. She had a remedy against silver, but the soldiers had taken it when they took the rest of her items. She could heal herself – but not until her magicka was restored. Her hands were still bound, but she could get them free if she had to – for all the good that would do her, when it was all she could do to stand up straight. She couldn't fight her way free. She would have to just make a run for it at the last moment.

Her eyes scanned the battlements, still lined with archers. In her present condition, under the daylight, she'd just get stuffed full of arrows – then probably decapitated anyway, when the soldiers came to see why the arrows hadn't killed her. But there was no other option.

Where was Alexien? Was he coming?

Or was he – empty night – was he still at Riverwood, and didn't even know anything was wrong yet?

A pair of soldiers grabbed the prisoner of front of Serana and forced him to his knees, head on the block. A priestess chanted some prayer or other in a bored voice, and the executioner raised his axe.

And Serana had to admit the truth.

She was going to die.

Alexien wasn't coming, and she was going to die.

Well, she had always known her death would come some day, and that it would be violent. She just… hadn't expected it to be today. But it made sense. It seemed a fitting end to her twisted life, a cruel joke of fate that she should have expected, that _of course_ after living so long alone, she would die so soon after meeting Alexien. The gods had seen her happy, and realized they had made a horrible mistake somewhere, and made sure to fix it at their earliest opportunity.

She wished she could leave a message for Alexien. Just to tell him it had been worth it.

And maybe ask him to make sure he killed that thrice-damned Thalmor wizard.

The axe came down on the prisoner. There was a spray of blood; it reminded Serana inexplicably of a child splashing in the pool. She couldn't help it: she laughed. A hand forced her forwards, and she laughed still.

And then she heard it.

* * *

Hundreds of miles away, the Greybeard started up from his meditation in shock, and stared at the sky.

"So that is why," he said.

* * *

Its roar was a hurricane; in its noise the air seemed to vibrate like a solid thing. The executioner dropped his axe and clutched his hands to his ears; several of the Altmer looked sick with pain; Imperial officers shouted to have their orders heard by deafened soldiers.

And Serana looked up, and saw it. Its black wings seemed to fill all the sky. Lightning went before it, thunder was around it; it wore terror like a cloak. At its very presence the foundations of the world seemed to tremble, as if reality could not bear the weight of its glory.

A dragon. Serana stared, open-mouthed, still amid the chaos around her. She had seen Durnehviir, and thought that he must have given an impression of what a dragon was. But Durnehviir had not technically been alive, and she had seen him only in the unreality of the Soul Cairn. He was as nothing to the living majesty of this creature, flying in the true skies over Tamriel.

The dragon spoke, and the world shuddered at the sound of its voice. The sky went black as night. Yet the dragon's scales were darker still, more solid and more real; and for a moment the shadow of its titanic form was all that could be seen.

Then fire flared up around it, and came raining down.

Flame exploded near Serana; the screams of prisoners and soldiers alike crested and were suddenly cut off. Another explosion, and bodies were flung through the air, smoking and mangled. A fireball struck a high tower; it tottered for a moment, then fell, great pieces of masonry crashing down on a group of civilians who had been cowering under its shelter.

The smell was overpowering: the iron-sweet scent of blood, burnt and ruined; charred flesh and sulfur, melted stone; and worst of all, the bitterness of animal fear, the death-fear that robs the mind of reason and humanity.

Serana ran.

As soon as the sun was obscured, she had felt strength returning to her limbs; she tore her hands free of the bonds; but still she could not face – _that._ She tore open a door and charged inside, found stairs down to a basement, flew down them.

She collapsed against the wall and closed her eyes. Overhead she could still hear, but faintly, the echo of screams, could still feel the vibrations of exploding flame; but here, down in the darkness, it was quiet, and cool, and calm. Here she could rest a moment, and let her body heal.

Serana could not tell how long she waited like that, eyes closed. The panic-sounds above seemed far away. Slowly she felt herself heal, felt her magicka returning.

When she thought she was almost back to normal, she heard the door above open, and smelled the fear as someone fled down the stairs. She stood up. An elf ran into the basement, saw her, stopped. He was one of the Thalmor – not a mage, not one of the officials, just a soldier.

He raised his sword, hands shaking, and pointed it at Serana. "S-stay back!"

Serana fell upon him, knocked the blade aside, and sank her fangs into his neck.

With the blood she felt her full strength return, the last effects of the silver fade.

She wondered what she should do about the elf. From what she had seen and heard so far, every dead Thalmor would do the world good. But… she didn't like to kill when feeding. Or worse, she _would_ like it, and crossing that line now would make it all the easier to cross it in the future. She lay the elf down, cast a spell of forgetfulness on him, and started up the stairs.

There was still a dragon on the rampage. She needed to do… something. She'd decide when she saw it.

As soon as she stepped outside, she was almost overpowered again by the smell of burning and death, by the chaos of noise. Half the city was in flame, and still ever more fire rained down from above. People were running about aimlessly, or cowering wherever they dared, as the panic drove them.

There were pockets of resistance. In the courtyard, an Imperial officer had organized a group of archers – some of them were soldiers of the legion, some were Stormcloak prisoners freed and given weapons, some looked like civilians armed with crossbows for the emergency. A handful of battlemages stood with them, casting wards.

Then the dragon was there: it suddenly swept down out of the darkness, diving for the group of archers. The officer gave an order, and the bows all twanged at once. Arrows bounced off scales, useless as a child's toy. The group scattered. The dragon took one of the archers in its jaws, and flung him aside; its claws landed on a battlemage, and smashed him into the ground; and as it took off, its great tail swept out and knocked over a half-standing tower, and buried others in rubble.

Somehow Serana knew that it was toying with them. To the dragon, this wasn't a battle, wasn't even a massacre. It was a game. It could have leveled the town with a word, could have killed everyone in it with a thought. But drawing out the destruction was _fun_ for it.

How could she fight that?

She couldn't. No one could.

It was time to leave.

Where was Alexien?

Serana ran through the town, darting through alleys and under falling buildings. She passed another group of archers, bravely, and vainly, still fighting; they scattered when flame exploded near them. One of the Thalmor recognized her, and ordered her to stop; then the dragon took him. She ran on.

Another open courtyard. A group of civilians huddled together under one of the city walls. People ran hither and thither across the open ground, blind with terror, soldiers, prisoners, elves, civilians – and children.

And the great dragon circled above, turned, and dove for them.

Serana ran out into the middle of the courtyard, where two young girls had frozen and stared up with wide eyes. Serana stood over them.

The dragon swept down, jaws parted, and its mouth glowed with fire. Serana raised both hands overhead, and poured all her fear, all her desperation, every vestige of strength she could gather into a ward.

The spell sprang to life, blue-white, bright in the blackness, just as the dragon was upon them. It spoke again – and this time Serana recognized the word:

_**"YOL!"** _

She couldn't think; a jet of flame struck her ward, and it _burned,_ burned in her mind and in her heart and in her soul, and this was how she was going to die, burning, melting in the dragonfire –

Then it was over. The dragon passed by. Serana's ward fell apart, she no longer had the power to maintain it – but it had done its job. The two children stared at her in awe, then ran on. Serana saw a woman who must have been their mother take them in her arms and hurry them away.

Serana headed for the city gate, it had to be somewhere nearby – but a voice nearby called out "Wait, please wait!"

It was the woman, with her two daughters; now a third child, a son, was with her, and an older man followed behind her.

"My Lady, Master," she said – they thought Serana was from the College – "please, take us with you!"

Serana shook her head. "I can't protect you."

"But you did," the woman insisted, "and no one else has. Please, you're our only chance!"

Well, Serana reflected, the gods _did_ have a sense of humor after all. An hour ago she had faced death, and this family might have been there to watch; now they were turning to her, a vampire, for salvation. But the woman wasn't wrong: no one could stop the dragon, and it would kill everyone who didn't escape.

"All right," said Serana. "I can't make any promises, but I'll do what I can. Stay close to me. We're going north. We're headed for Riverwood," she added, thinking aloud, "and then Whiterun."

Serana had to slow her pace so they could follow her. She wasn't used to going slow anymore, not since she had turned Alexien; but otherwise they wouldn't be able to keep up. It made the trek through the city all the more nerve-wracking: now she had others to think about as she crept along, hiding in the shadows of towers, taking cover beneath high walls, skirting the edges of open courtyards. She avoided the scattered groups of soldiers that still fought on, for they only ever made themselves targets and attracted that rain of fire, those claws of death.

As they went on, more joined themselves to the group and followed Serana. Most were civilians, some young and some old; but many also were soldiers, Imperials who had lost their weapons or whose armor was burnt black, Stormcloaks who had been prisoners, even a pair of elves who had thrown aside their Thalmor insignia, all equal now in fear and in hope. At first Serana tried to wave them off, lest the dragon notice a larger group; but they looked to her with such desperation that she had no heart to turn them away. She led them on.

They passed under a high tower from which a few brave or foolish archers still stood at their posts, firing arrow after arrow at the dragon. Suddenly it flew by and with a contemptuous flick of its tail shattered the tower; broken stone cascaded down like an avalanche towards Serana's little group of refugees. Several screamed. Serana raised her hands. She could not block the debris, there was too much of it and she was exhausted already; but she might be able to deflect it. She applied the smallest possible effective amount of telekinesis, and the debris crashed down just behind them, instead of right on top of them. Serana turned away from the expressions of gratitude and kept going forwards in silence.

Then the city gate was before them, across one final stretch of open ground. Serana hesitated. If the dragon swept down upon them here, there was nowhere to hide. And she didn't think she could block its attack again, if it Spoke fire at her (or whatever it had done). But… staying in place also wasn't an option. As it was going, the dragon wouldn't stop until it had leveled the city to the ground. She took a careful step forward, then another.

The dragon's ear-splitting roar cut through the darkness.

Serana looked up and saw it away to her right, wheeling around for another pass. Those gigantic wings beat against the sky, and it flew straight for her. She would swear its eyes were locked on her own.

It opened its mouth, folded back its wings, and dove.

"Stay here!" she shouted at the group following her, and ran out into the courtyard alone.

The dragon angled its huge body and tracked her. Did it recognize her from before? Whatever the reason, it had clearly decided that now it was her turn to die.

Serana bared her teeth. Let it fucking try.

She was a mage, with the power of creation at her fingertips; she was a Daughter of Coldharbour, dreadful and immortal; she had ventured to the depths of Blackreach, had trod the pathless waste of Oblivion, and conquered both. _She_ did not feel fear: other things feared _her._ She had already faced death once today, and Dagon take her if an extinct lizard was going to make her do so a second time.

Fire gathered around the dragon's jaws. Fine. Two could play at that.

Serana dropped a foot back, raised her left arm, and called upon the light that was now always just at the back of her mind. Auriel's Bow flared to life. Her hand drew back the string; an arrow of blazing gold appeared; she let out a breath, and took aim.

For just a second, she and the dragon stared at one another, and the only illumination in that artificial night was the gold of Auriel's Bow and the red of dragonfire.

Serana loosed.

The dragon swerved aside. Its vast black wings unfolded and beat the air, and it flew up, higher and higher into the sky, until even Serana's eyes could follow it no longer. It had vanished.

Serana blinked. Surely it wasn't that easy. Surely…

But the sky lightened, and day returned. People were clapping her on the back and kissing her hand, and they wouldn't let her feel her uneasiness.

"Come on," she said impatiently, "it could still come back. We're not safe yet. Let's move, quick as you can."

She took off towards the gate, at the fastest pace she thought the refugees could keep up with.

"Stop!" called a voice from behind her. An annoying, arrogant, elven voice. Serana ignored it.

"Stop, in the name of the Dominion!" it called again. Serana half-turned and threw a thunderbolt behind her without looking, and kept running. She heard a gasp of impact and knew she had hit her target.

And then she was through the gate. Skyrim was before her, the ruined city behind her. She waited a moment as the small group followed her out, then checked to make sure no one was pursuing them.

"Right," she said. "We're going to Riverwood, then Whiterun. We need to get everyone behind its walls."

But the walls of Helgen hadn't stopped it… Serana pushed that thought away. They had to go _somewhere._

And she needed to find Alexien.


	2. Unbound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not completely satisfied with this, but I wanted to be sure to post something before the holidays... Anyway, thanks as always for all your comments!

Helgen was in ashes, when Alexien found it.

He had stayed longer than expected in Riverwood. There seemed no end of the people asking for his help: after he went back to assist the man and his wife, he was approached by a second woman whose husband had suffered an injury; and after that, when he was preparing to leave, the innkeeper Delphine offered to pay him to ward the doors and windows, because, she said, they had had trouble with bandits lurking around and eavesdropping.

But all the while he felt a growing unease, a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, that he was supposed to be somewhere else. He supposed he just missed Serana. After all, they hadn't been apart since – he thought back – since Serana had showed up again at Fort Dawnguard, almost eight months before.

With all that, Alexien had been busy all the rest of the day after he left Serana, and all of the next night. It was mid-morning before he was finally able to get back on the road south. He had thought of waiting for nightfall, when traveling would be more comfortable; but Serana would have already reached Helgen, and if he were delayed any more she would doubtless start to worry.

That, and he _did_ miss her.

So, despite the sunlight stinging his eyes and pricking his skin, he set out.

It was strange, that he missed Serana so much after so short a time apart. Before meeting her he had always preferred to be alone, and most enjoyed quietness apart from others. Then again, maybe it wasn't strange. Maybe he had always so preferred solitude because, before meeting Serana, there was no one he wanted to share that solitude with. But now it was wonderful, how _easy_ it was to fill up the time talking together, either on serious subjects or on no subject at all; or sitting together doing nothing and seemingly paying each other no mind, content just to be close while they read or thought separately; or walking across a new landscape or through a new town and simply enjoying the sights together, understanding one another without having to say anything aloud.

Yes, traveling with her, in peace, was something worth looking forward to.

A few miles south of Riverwood the road crested over a hill, and Alexien could just make out the outline of Helgen, far off in the distance.

At least… he should have been able to. But when he looked, there was a strange haze drawn around the town, an obscurity his eyes could not pierce. It wasn't smoke, not quite – but then it must be smoke, for here and there he could discern the reddish glow of flame.

Helgen was burning.

And Serana was there.

Something in his brain screamed at him that he was supposed to be there, that he had to make haste. But there was something else, something wrong. Alexien closed his eyes and reached out with his magical senses – and recoiled. Something _was_ at work there: he could feel on the air some vast and horrible power, a power that froze his heart and set it burning at the same time, terror mingled with exultation, because now, at last, the time was near.

But all that mattered was that Serana was there, and he was not.

He ran. He ran as fast as he could, beneath the sunlight; and though he was faster than any man or horse, it felt slow. He ran on the road as long as it went straight; then when it curved aside, he ran across fields and through woods, always in a straight line, always directly towards Helgen.

If he had kept to the road, he might have met with Serana as she headed north from the ruin of the town; but he did not.

Evening was falling again when he arrived at the city gates. They had been blasted apart by some massive force. Alexien passed through, and his heart hammered as he looked around: where there had been stone towers were now only heaps of rubble, broken and scattered, flame-blackened; what might have been houses were now but ash and dust, blown thick on a heavy wind; and wherever he looked, no flammable thing at all remained, but only melted stone and ruined metal.

The smell of what he suddenly realized were bodies did not even strike him: they were too burnt to have the scent of death.

What in the name of all the gods had happened? Was it the civil war – had Ulfric perhaps sacked the town? But that wouldn't account for the utter wreck; no human power could bring devastation like this.

Then there was that strange power, so strong here that he could almost taste it. He couldn't quite place it; but it reminded him of –

Alexien drew his sword, and called aloud, "Serana!"

His voice echoed amid the rubble, but there was no answer.

He walked on, and after a minute called Serana's name again. Again there was no answer.

Gods have mercy on whomever he found there, if they couldn't tell him what had happened to her.

His stomach felt heavy, as cold dread settled in; and he raced through the ruins of the city, ever more frantic as he found but ever more desolation.

Finally he caught the scent of something living, and he stopped. He sniffed the air. Elves – probably Altmer. Several of them, and at least one, judging by the faint tingle of magic, was a mage. Here, that could only mean Thalmor.

He thought of creeping nearer to spy on them, and rejected it. His sword he gripped tighter, and walked towards them.

There were four of them in a clearing. One wore black robes and was busy examining the ground, tracing sigils in the dust – a wizard, probably a justiciar. The other three were soldiers clad in armor and bearing swords; they were spread out around the mage, keeping watch as he worked. They carried torches, so they could see in the dark of night.

Alexien got embarrassingly close before they noticed him. One of the soldiers jumped suddenly and drew his blade, and cried "Halt!" The others spun to face him; the wizard glanced up once, then returned his attention to his spellwork.

"This area is off limits, citizen," the soldier commanded. "Sheathe your weapon and leave."

"I think not," said Alexien. "I'm looking for someone."

"If they were here, then they are certainly dead. Now leave."

The soldiers started to fan out around Alexien. He ignored them. "I can't help but notice you're looking for traces of magic," he said. "By happy coincidence, the person I'm looking for was a mage."

The Thalmor wizard looked up at him. "You know her?"

 _Her._ Alexien forced himself to give a nonchalant shrug. "I know a lot of _hers._ Who do you have in mind?"

The Altmer seemed to debate with himself a moment, then stood up and faced Alexien. "Very well. The Imperial Legion escorted into the city a number of travelers; among them was a tall woman, Nord, dark of hair, who on closer examination I determined to be a mage. She was given magebane to prevent… accidents. Nonetheless, in the ensuing chaos she was seen to be using magic, including to assault a duly appointed justiciar of the Dominion in the performance of his duties; and then she fled when we sought to discuss these events with her."

"Meaning," said Alexien, "the Legion, under orders from the Thalmor, captured a number of prisoners and brought them under guard to Helgen, where you drugged them to prevent escape; but she still managed to outsmart and outfight you, and now she's gone and you can't find her. What you mean by 'the ensuing chaos' I can't guess, except" – Alexien waved an arm around the ruined town – "that it's the cause of all this. Prisoners got free and started a riot, did they?"

"You ask more than is good for you to know," said the Thalmor. "Now, tell me what you know of this woman. The Dominion would still very much like to speak with her."

"I'm sure you would. Instead let me offer some free advice: let it go. You won't like what's going to happen if you do manage to catch her."

"And you won't like what's going to happen if you attempt to threaten us, or continue to defy us. I order you to tell us the woman's name."

"Look, it's been a long year, and you're going to have to try a lot harder to intimidate me. Go to Oblivion."

The Thalmor wizard made a gesture, and the three soldiers surrounded Alexien. "If that's your answer, I am afraid that we must demand your name as well."

Alexien watched the soldiers warily. Two were behind him, but he could still track them by their heartbeat, could still see the flickering light of their torches. "Alexien," he said, with a bow. The effect was somewhat ruined by the sword still held in hand. "And you?"

"Rulindil. Your surname?"

"I don’t think that’s any business of yours."

"Need I remind you," Rulindil started, "that by the terms of the White-Gold Concordat, we are empowered with full authority to –"

"Fine, I’ll tell you anything if it’ll shut you up," said Alexien. "It’s de la Roche."

"I see. Are you perhaps any relation to Lord Percival of Wayrest?"

Alexien's eyes widened in surprise. "I don't know a Lord Percival of Wayrest," he said, raising his sword to a fighting stance. "But I know a Lord _Sir_ Percival of Villesavin, _from_ Wayrest, and I'm his son."

"I thought so. Well then, Alexien of Wayrest, I’m afraid that you are going to have to come with us."

"And I am afraid that I shall do no such thing."

"You misunderstand. I am not asking."

" _You_ misunderstand. I am refusing."

The justiciar chuckled. "You do not realize your situation. Doubtless you have learned some small magic from the little institution that is honored with the name 'College,' but I am a wizard from the Crystal Tower of Alinor. And, if you have not noticed, you are outnumbered four to one."

Alexien glanced over each of the four Thalmor in succession, then once up at the night sky. "Indeed. I should warn you, this isn't a fair fight."

"My point exactly."

"Once again, you misunderstand my meaning," said Alexien. He raised his left hand and made a warding gesture. "One chance. Tell me what happened here and where my friend went, and we can forget this ever happened."

"And I give you one final chance to tell me what I want to know voluntarily, before I… extract the information from you in more unpleasant ways. Doubtless you have h–"

In mid-syllable, Alexien blurred. He hadn't fought ordinary mortals since becoming a vampire, and had wondered what it would be like. Now he knew. As soon as he moved it seemed like time had slowed down for him, and the Thalmors' motions were sluggish and heavy.

One of the elven soldiers behind him had started to lunge on reflex. Alexien sidestepped the blade, flicked out his sword, and opened his throat.

But Rulindil, pompous and wordy as he was, had not boasted for nothing. Thunder cracked, and Alexien barely had time to raise a barrier before a bolt of lightning slammed into it. At the same moment his barrier fractured – not from the lightning, but because the lightning had been a feint, as the Thalmor mage concentrated on counterspelling Alexien's magic.

The two soldiers left circled and came at Alexien from either side. They had practiced fighting spellcasters: while Rulindil locked down his power, they would close in and have him at their mercy. It was clever, professional, and, in this case, pointless.

Alexien suddenly darted left, parried a clumsy sword-thrust, seized the elf by the neck in his off-hand and hurled him away. He turned towards Rulindil, planted his feet, closed his eyes, and examined the spell.

There were several ways to counterspell a wizard. The simplest was reactive: you could match them magic for magic, and meet every spell they tried to cast with an equal and opposite spell, thus canceling out any effect. The risk was that the enemy could do something you couldn't match, or do it faster than you could react. The second was preemptive: you could draw a transdimensional mental wall around them, effectively sealing them off from the rest of the world and cutting them off from their magicka. But that was difficult to do, and if the wizard had more raw power than you, he could simply overload your wall and break through. The third was most effective, but also required the most skill: whenever they gathered power, you could simply rip it away from them, pull the fabric of the spell apart in their very hands. But your magical senses had to be accurate and precise, enough so for you to be able to reach out and seize the energies on the correct wavelength they were drawing on.

That was how Alexien had seen Serana counterspelling a necromancer, once; and it had been damn impressive. It was also what Rulindil was doing. It was a confident move, and frankly hard to counter. The smart thing was not to try to counter it at all: to accept that his magic was locked down, and side-step the move by charging with his sword.

But Alexien didn't want to do that. Rulindil had insulted the College, and a large, petty, and proud part of him demanded that he vindicate its honor, and beat Rulindil magic-to-magic.

Fortunately he had access to a wavelength of arcane energy that Rulindil would probably be unfamiliar with, would be slow to sense and so unable to grasp. He was a vampire, and knew how to use anti-life.

He opened his eyes again. Rulindil smirked at him. Well, let him: he wouldn't be smirking much longer. Alexien stretched out his left hand and charged a healing spell, the same as he had used on Serana before; red light gathered and swirled around his arm; and he threw the energy at Rulindil.

The death-magic struck him; he shuddered and gave a gasp of pain, and his counterspell fell apart.

The last Thalmor soldier closed on Alexien, and chose that moment to attack. He chose poorly. Alexien waved an arm, and massive unseen force hurled the elf away and into a wall with a sound of snapping bone.

A blast of sunfire – Alexien sidestepped, and reflexively shot back lightning. Then he realized: Rulindil had attacked him with _sunfire._

He looked around, but could find no trace of the Altmer mage. He had cast the sunfire as a distraction, and run. Probably under Illusion. Alexien sniffed the air, but the smell of ash and burning, the scent of blood spilled nearby, was too strong; he couldn't make anything else out.

Rulindil, a Thalmor justiciar, knew Alexien was a vampire. And he had gotten away.

"Great," Alexien muttered, sheathing his sword. "Just great."

A cough – the soldier Alexien had thrown by the neck was still alive. Alexien was over him in a moment. He raised his hands and tried to scoot away.

"No, don't –"

Alexien seized him by the shoulders and held him up. "Let's try this again, shall we?"

"Please, I'm just –"

"I'm looking for a friend of mine," Alexien went on, in a hard voice. "The woman Rulindil mentioned. You saw her, yes?"

"I don't – yes."

"She was a prisoner?"

He was trying not to look in Alexien's face. He started to say something, but closed his mouth and just nodded.

Alexien felt sick; but right now, he needed to know. "Is she alive? Unharmed?"

"We didn't capture her, I swear, it wasn't our idea, I didn't –"

Alexien shoved him back against the wall. "Not what I asked."

"She's… all right. Last I saw. I saw her leave through the city gate, going north – Rulindil tried to stop her, but she attacked him – she was gathering a group of civilians around her, I think she was trying to get them to safety."

"Why were the prisoners here?"

"The Empire captured some of the rebels. I think they got Ulfric; that's what I heard. They brought them all here to – to execute them. I don't know why your friend was with them, I swear."

"But something happened," said Alexien. "Was there a riot? A rescue attempt? Did the rebels attack the city?"

The elf blinked and stared at Alexien in confusion, all fear forgotten. "You don't… know?"

"Know what?"

"I thought… I thought everyone would know by now."

"Know _what?_ "

He looked away. Then he said, in a small voice like a child's: "The dragon."

Alexien's grip tightened. Again that strange feeling of mingled terror and exultation leapt in his chest; but he ignored it. "Go on."

"The dragon," the soldier said again. "It was… like in the stories. Huge, its wings blotted out the sky. Fire. It rained fire down on us. And it just… it just killed everyone."

"Is that why you were still here? Investigating?"

"Rulindil – he said we needed to know more. About the dragon. And – and about the woman."

"Why the woman? What did she have to do with the dragon?"

"She fought it. She sent… some kind of magic at it. Gold and bright, it made you feel warm just to see it. And the dragon, it just… went away."

Alexien's mind was racing. A dragon. A dragon here, in Tamriel.

Somehow it never occurred to him to doubt the story. Somehow he knew, knew in his bones, that it was true.

He turned his attention back to the elf. "Okay, so she fought off the dragon. Why did Rulindil try to stop her, then? Why were you pursuing her?"

Again those fearful eyes looked anywhere other than Alexien's face. "Rulindil said we needed to know. He wanted to catch her and bring her back to Northwatch. So we could… could make her tell us about the dragon, and what she did to drive it away. Whatever that power she used was, so we could take it from her."

Fury like fire surged up; Alexien's grip tightened again, and he took no notice of the pained whimpers. Almost before he knew what he was doing his hands moved to snap the elf's neck – but he stopped himself at the last moment.

Alexien took a deep breath. The anger did not want to yield. He breathed deep again, closed his eyes, counted.

He dropped the Thalmor to the ground and took a step back.

"Leave, and never come back. Look at me." Fearful eyes met his. "You know my name. Hers is Serana. Tell your masters, if you must; but tell them also that if any of the Thalmor ever trouble us again, I will kill _all of you._ Look at me. Do you think, for a moment, that I am exaggerating?" The head shook. "Good. This is the only mercy you get. Remember it."

With that Alexien turned away, and started back northwards.

He had to find Serana.

And the dragon.


	3. Before the Storm

The trek from Helgen – or what had been Helgen – back up to Riverwood did not go as well as Serana would have liked. Her little band of refugees (there were sixteen of them: she counted often) could not travel quickly: several were children, several were elderly, and almost all were wounded.

The first night out they had had to stop to camp, despite an utter destitution of tents, bedding, food, water, or supplies of any kind. But those who had spent the morning fleeing before the Dragon, simply could go no further that evening. Wounds had to be treated, rest had to be taken, children had to be fed. And Serana had to make decisions. She was no good at Restoration magic (once again she raised her head hopefully, as if Alexien might choose that moment to arrive) and had too few healing potions for everyone. She _thought_ none of them was in immediate mortal danger, so she chose to heal three strong-looking adults and then sent them off to the north, west, and east, to look for water, help, or food, in that order, to bring back to the others. Meanwhile she stayed with the group, and did what little she could for them, and resolved to protect them while they rested.

She didn't think it likely that the Dragon (she always capitalized the word in her head, for some reason, when thinking of _that_ particular dragon) would hound seventeen forlorn refugees, nor that bandits would raid their pitiful excuse for a camp when it obviously lacked anything worth stealing; but then, this was Skyrim, and one never knew.

She also didn't think they were in any danger from _her:_ for although she was hungry, and they were bleeding, and her predator's instincts screamed at her to take the weakest and be done with it; yet, at the same time, she had never felt less like feeding.

The refugees were only too glad to take any excuse to rest. Most were too deep in shock to even notice the lack of camping gear. All were as grateful as exhaustion allowed. They were all the more grateful halfway through the night, when two of the three men Serana had sent out returned with a skin full of water and several rabbits. They were able to light a small fire (Serana had started to do it, but remembered the Dragonfire and shuddered), and ate a meal meager but cheerful enough.

Serana watched them with interest. The woman and her three children, who had been the first to follow, were accompanied by her father, a tall, proud farmer; the children's father, Serana gathered, was an Imperial merchant away in Cyrodiil, who they were wondering how to send word to. There was a man so old he could barely walk, supported by his granddaughter, a girl of maybe ten or eleven years who made sure he had enough to eat and joked to keep up his mood. A Stormcloak soldier – one of the few who had kept hold of a weapon, an ancient, rusted axe – sat with, of all things, a Bosmer woman, who laid her head on his shoulder contentedly. One of the Thalmor had joined them, his armor battered and fire-blackened; he sat apart from the others and gave them awkward smiles whenever they looked his way, until a Nord man brought him food and a cup of water. A few children, unwounded except for scrapes and bruises, chased one another in a game of tag; they ran in circles around Serana, who was, apparently, "home base."

They were a miscellaneous lot, and they all reacted to Serana differently. The children, who had been most frightened of her early on, soon warmed up to her: they were curious and asked her many questions – where was she from, and was she really a mage, and where had she learned magic, and what was her favorite color, and did she think they could be mages too – and were fascinated by all her answers. Most of the adults were more standoffish but polite, though the old man accompanied by his granddaughter addressed her several times as "kid." Many were a bit uneasy around her, even if Serana doubted they knew why. If any had grown suspicious because she always kept her hood up and never ate or drank anything, they were smart enough, or desperate enough, not to say anything.

Come dawn of the second day they set out again. They plodded along wearily; all were still exhausted, and had barely the strength to make it up some of the dusty foot-paths. Around noon – Serana pulled her hood tighter around her face, and cursed their slowness – they stumbled across the body of the third man Serana had sent out, lying along the side of the road. Bandits had evidently killed him for his boots. Serana closed her eyes a moment, swore vengeance, and continued on.

Evening was falling when they finally arrived in Riverwood. The townspeople greeted them with alarm, thinking them delirious when they kept repeating the word "dragon"; but they gave them food and ale, took the sickest to the inn, and lodged the rest with several families around town.

* * *

It was midnight, and Serana was still running about Riverwood from house to house, trying to make sure that all her people were settled in and being taken care of.

She had just visited the last house they were staying at and was heading back to the inn, to check in again on the worst wounded, when there was a commotion around the town's southern gate. The night watch called out a challenge, and several of the local militia who had been put on high alert ran towards the gate. Serana went with them, mentally preparing herself to call up power she wasn't sure she had left.

Instead, she dropped her guard and all but laughed with relief. It was Alexien.

He was riding Arvak, who had taken the form of a tall grey horse, panting hard. Alexien's left hand was raised, wreathing him in magelight; two nervous-looking guards armed with spears stood in his way.

Then he saw Serana, and at once he leapt down from the horse, ignored the guards entirely, and ran to embrace her.

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Took you long enough," she said.

"I was –" but he couldn't think what to say, and he cut himself off with a laugh and kissed her.

"He's, er…" started one of the guards awkwardly; "He's with you, Lady?"

"He's with me," said Serana. "He's here to help."

Alexien started to open his mouth to say something, but Serana shook her head. "Come on," she said. "We need to talk – in private – but first I have half a dozen wounded civilians who might die without a healer."

She turned and headed for the inn. Alexien followed. "What," he started, "they couldn't fall ill when we were already here last time?"

"It… it was the Dragon, Alexien. In Helgen."

They walked on, gravel crunching beneath their boots. "I heard about that," said Alexien. "It's real? Like Durnehviir? And you were there?"

"It's real, and I was there. But… no, it wasn't like Durnehviir. Come on; save lives now, and then we'll talk."

They said no more. Serana led Alexien to the inn and introduced him as a Restoration master, to sighs of relief. He had Serana show him the most ill first, then so on in order.

It was, unfortunately, not as bad as they had feared: the Dragon had left few wounded victims. Most had moderate burns, or broken bones and contusions from falling rubble; but none had faced an attack from the Dragon directly. They would not have been still living if they had. But two days of travelling with little food, water, or rest had done none of them any good.

The worst was a concussed woman, now barely conscious, who had been vomiting too much to keep down any food. Alexien shook his head. He healed her burns easily, then did something to her head that made her eyes less glassy; but he said only time and rest could help her, and even then she might never be the same. Then there was a man with a broken leg, who had started to develop a fever: a nasty cut where the skin had been crushed was putrefying. Alexien set and wrapped the leg, then boiled wine with pyromancy and poured it over the wound – the man screamed – before sending a wave of healing energy into him. He left a bottle labeled with green ink, and went to see the next patient. Several children were severely dehydrated, and one young girl carried by her father was pale from blood loss; about the former Alexien could do nothing directly, but he soothed their headaches and nausea and left instructions for their care, while for the latter he made a simple potion of garlic and juniper berries, infused it with magic, and had the father tip it down her throat.

The rest, Alexien said, were in no immediate danger, but he healed their burns and eased their pain. After that he talked briefly with the innkeeper, who agreed to let them stay and promised to feed them according to his instructions, in exchange for a few potions Alexien brewed for her.

Serana led him from house to house throughout Riverwood, so he could cure the less serious cuts and minor injuries suffered by the others. It was almost dawn before they were finished.

When finally they had a chance to talk, Serana motioned for Alexien to follow her and led him a little ways out of town, where they would not be overheard. They came to a clearing in the woods, surrounded by tall pines with fallen needles soft underfoot, and sat on the stumps of trees that had been cut down for Riverwood's lumbermill.

"First off: thank you," said Serana. "That's a huge weight off my mind, now that I don't have to worry about them constantly. Now I can go back to 'selfish evil vampire girl.'"

Alexien snorted. "Any time. You did well, by the way, getting them here from Helgen in their state. But how exactly did your stroll to Helgen end with you leading a band of refugees across Skyrim?"

"By means of my usual fantastic luck. Hold on, there's a lot I have to tell you, and if I don't do it in the right order I'll forget half of it. It's… been a long two days."

"Take your time."

Serana paused to collect her thoughts. "Most importantly: By all the gods I'm glad to see you again."

"So am I," said Alexien. "I… I saw Helgen, Serana. It was…" He shook his head. "I think the obvious lesson is that we just can't separate ever again, because _look what happens._ "

"I was trying to be serious, jerk."

"I am being serious. When I saw what was left of the city, and I couldn't find you… I…"

"It's okay," said Serana. She moved closer to him. "I'm here now. And hey, I'll have you know I did just fine without you. I won a staring contest with a dragon and only almost died three times."

"Serana…"

"No, wait, four times. Well, I guess it depends how you count."

Alexien sighed. Serana gave him a grin, which slowly faded from her face.

"Sorry," she said. "Sarcasm is… anyway, here's what happened. I walked into an Imperial ambush and stupidly managed to get captured, because I was stupid, and I decided, stupidly, that it would be easier to escape later instead of fighting my way out right then."

"Wait – an Imperial ambush?"

"Yeah. A legion came up from Cyrodiil and caught Ulfric and some of his men."

Alexien thought a moment. "Damn it. Let me guess: the Thalmor were with them, and they just wanted to execute everyone they caught?"

"See, I knew I didn't just keep you around because you're cute," Serana smiled. "Got it in one. And one of the Thalmor was a mage; he sensed there was something different about me at once, and he gave me a magicka poison that just happened to have silver in it. Because, as I mentioned earlier, I have _the best_ luck."

"I think I met that mage," said Alexien. "His name is Rulindil."

"Is?"

"He got away."

"That's a shame."

"And… he, er, he might, maybe, just possibly, know our real names."

Serana stared. 

"And that I'm a vampire."

"The _best_ luck."

"Yeah."

"So that's going to be a problem."

"Also he knows who my parents are, because evidently they've been causing trouble for the Dominion back in High Rock. So there's that, too."

"You're right," said Serana, "we _definitely_ can't separate ever again."

Alexien grinned sheepishly. "Well, regardless, please resume your story."

"Hold on; before we get back to that, do we need to talk about your parents?"

"I don't know that there's anything to say. They've pissed off the Thalmor somehow. That's not exactly hard to do, but… yeah, it's still not great. I'll write them when we get a chance, see what's up. Now – where were you, before I interrupted?"

"Bound, poisoned, and lined up for execution."

Alexien's jaw tightened. "Right. Please resume from there."

"So, I was bound, poisoned, and lined up for execution. Then…" Serana fell silent.

"Then the Dragon appeared," he said.

Serana nodded. "It was… I can't begin to describe it."

"You said it wasn't anything like Durnehviir."

"Durnehviir was… creepy, sure. And more than a little intimidating. But this was like… like being high up in the mountains, with a thunderstorm all around: somehow beautiful and terrible at once. Like a veil is suddenly pulled back, and you can see the world, really see it, for the first time."

"Was it using magic? A fear-aura, maybe?"

"No. No, nothing like that. It was just… itself."

Serana fell silent again. Alexien gestured for her to go on.

"Well, everyone definitely forgot about me, when that showed up. They forgot about absolutely everything else. I got free, made my escape, recovered my strength by feeding on one of the Thalmor –"

"Good."

"– then I started to look for a way out of the city. The Dragon was – well, you saw the destruction afterwards, but watching it actually happen – the Dragon wasn't even _trying,_ Alexien; wrecking an entire city, garrisoned by an entire army, was just a game for it."

"So you decided to see if you could stop it?"

"Oblivion, no. I decided to run like Mehrunes Dagon himself was after me. I knew there was nothing I or anyone could do to stop something like that. But…" She hesitated. "But there were children. I mean, what would _you_ have done?"

"Run like Mehrunes Dagon was after me, looked back, felt guilty, cursed, tried to save them."

"See, you _do_ know me." Serana sighed. "I managed to get them out of danger, and my reward was that a lot of other desperate people decided I could lead them to safety. So the lot of us tried to sneak our way out of town without anyone or anything noticing. It… didn't work."

"What happened?"

"The Dragon found us. It swept down, and… and it was headed straight for me. Like it had picked me out especially." She laid a hand on Alexien's shoulder. "I have no idea why it did that, or why what I did next worked. I drew Auriel's Bow, fired, and missed; but after that, it just… left."

Alexien frowned. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"That's… strange. I wonder why…" His voice trailed off.

"Well," said Serana, "you know what we should do, is find a dragon expert who would be able to explain it to us and _oh wait_ we're the only two people alive – so to speak – who have ever talked to one."

He snorted, then looked thoughtful. "Actually – _did_ it talk?"

"It didn't stop to chat like Durnehviir, no. But it did use that… dragon-language-magic thing you do. _Yol_."

"Hm. Interesting."

They fell silent a while. "Anyway," said Serana, "that's the end of the story. We left Helgen and made it to Riverwood, barely, where you found us."

"Then I suppose the only remaining question –" Alexien started.

"– is what we do next," she finished.

He gave a hollow smile. "Well, we could always just thank the gods that we're together again and go on our merry way."

"Keep going on to High Rock, you mean?"

"Why not? I have a strict 'saving the world' quota: maximum once per year. Tell the Dragon to take a number and wait in line until we're available; in the meantime, let someone else deal with the crisis for once."

"You don't mean that," said Serana, her eyes flitting over his face.

Alexien looked defiant for a moment; then he deflated. "No, but I wish I did. Sometimes I think about how nice it would be to let ourselves be selfish, just once."

"I don't. I spent long enough being selfish; this 'helping people' thing is new to me. It's kind of exciting."

"Give it time, it'll get old fast."

Serana shrugged. "You can always retire, let me handle it alone." When he glared at her, she grinned. "All right then. So, what's our next move?"

"I suspect you already have a plan. You were heading north from Helgen – Whiterun?"

"It's the biggest city nearby," said Serana. "They should be warned; they need to know what the Dragon is capable of. Maybe, if they're ready for it when it comes…" her voice trailed off.

"Whiterun it is, then," said Alexien.

He started to stand up, but Serana stopped him. "Alexien, I… I _am_ sorry, about – I was looking forward to seeing High Rock with you, to just traveling together."

"Well, good news, then: It looks like we'll still be traveling together. It'll just be in Skyrim again, and something will probably be trying to kill us the whole time."

"Like old times."

"Like old times."

* * *

They left Riverwood later that morning. Both were tired, and would have preferred to wait for nightfall; but both knew delay might be fatal. The refugees were mending, but none of them wanted to get back on the road again so quickly and couldn't have travelled at the required pace anyway; so they stayed. Alexien and Serana mounted Arvak and rode north.

Valerica had not praised the horse in vain: it sped like wind through the grass, over hills and through fields, never slowing and never tiring. Before evening had fallen they arrived at the gates of Whiterun. Serana glanced uneasily at the long-decrepit stone walls, and wondered how much strength remained to them.

A pair of guards bade them stop. "The city is shut," they said.

"We come from Helgen," said Alexien. "My friend was there when the Dragon attacked, and she brings news for the Jarl."

One of the guards gave Serana a hasty bow. "We had heard – we didn't think – you actually _saw_ it?"

"I saw it. If you've heard rumors and didn't believe them before, believe them now. The Dragon won't care if you believe in it or not."

"And you?" the other guard asked Alexien.

"I've also seen a dragon," he hedged.

The guards unlocked the gate. "Go straight to Dragonsreach; the Jarl will want to hear what you have to say."

"Thank you, we will."

Alexien started to turn away, but the guard stopped him with a gesture. "Wait – if it's… if a dragon really comes… what can we do?"

"If a dragon comes," he said, "then you get to be dragon-slayers. Keep heart, and watch the skies."

The guard nodded, and waved them on. Serana and Alexien passed through the gate into Whiterun.

"I didn't think we'd be back here so soon," muttered Alexien.

"Miss it?"

"Not particularly." He paused. "Well, I suppose I do have a soft spot for any Nord city where they don't attack me because I'm a Breton."

"Oh come on, don't be dramatic. Someone's only attacked you because you're a Breton that one time. And that was in Windhelm."

"You're right. I shall amend my statement: I have a soft spot for any Nord city that isn't Windhelm."

Serana rolled her eyes. "It's a wonder the residents of _any_ Nord city tolerate you."

"Well, it usually takes them a while to work out whether what I said is a compliment or not." Alexien looked up at Dragonsreach, towering above the rest of the rest of Whiterun. He sighed. "Come on, let's go pretend we're dragon experts."


	4. Archaeology

It was night, and the city should still have slept in peace. But it did not. Everywhere Alexien and Serana looked they saw disturbance and unease. Windows that should have been dark were lit by candlelight; alleyways that should have been empty held groups of people huddled together, whispering their fear; from the Temple of Kynareth rose the smoke of incense and the sound of many-voiced hymns.

Serana shuddered. The smell of anxiety was so heavy she could almost taste it, like bitter ashes on her tongue.

"Looks like they've already heard," she said.

"Maybe Helgen isn't the only town it's attacked."

They continued on, past the marketplace, past the hall of the Companions, up the many steps of the citadel, until they came to Dragonsreach, the palace and stronghold of Jarl Balgruuf. Two men clad in mail barred the way; they demanded Alexien leave his sword with them before letting them pass.

Alexien stepped inside, Serana just behind him; he blinked at the sudden light, lowered his hood, and looked around.

Dragonsreach was a famous hall: it was the largest wooden building in all Skyrim, probably in all Tamriel; and though it was not the oldest (that honor went to Jorrvaskr), it was still more ancient than the grand stone palaces of Solitude or Windhelm. Rafters blackened by the smoke of countless feasts rose as high above them as a strong man could throw a spear, supported by columns like ancient oaks, carved with twisting designs of knots, dragons, wolves, heroes, the art of whose style was long lost to the ages.

Even Alexien, who thought little enough of Nord culture, looked like he wanted to go examine the architecture more closely; but Serana gave him a gentle push towards the dais at the other end of the hall.

They strode up a long aisle between two tables, at which sat all the Jarl's household guard, armed for battle. They were all drinking mead, shouting, boasting, making dares, setting challenges: the bravado of men trying to prove to one another that they are not afraid. None of them paid Serana or Alexien any heed.

On the dais, a smaller group of people were gathered in quieter conversation. The Jarl sat on a high throne, under the sun-bleached skull of a dragon that could have devoured Jarl and throne together in one bite. All studiously avoided looking at the skull. The Jarl looked weary; around him his chief advisors argued in furious whispers.

Balgruuf noticed Alexien and Serana before the others. He raised a hand for silence, and his advisors were all cut off at once.

"I welcome you to my hall, travelers," said the Jarl, "but you may find the hospitality of Dragonsreach less than you expected, in times like these."

Alexien gave a deep bow. "It is because of times like these, my Jarl, that we have come."

The Jarl's steward, a shrewd-looking Imperial clad in fine robes, bent down and whispered in his ear. Balgruuf nodded. "Alexien of Winterhold, you are known in Whiterun, and welcome here. Who is your companion?"

"Serana, of Solitude," she said.

"You are likewise welcome here. Cupbearer, bring wine for our guests. Now, please forgive the shortness of my hospitality: why have you come?"

"We have been to Helgen, my Jarl, and come with news of the Dragon. My companion was there during the attack and took part in the defense of the city." The servant returned with wine; Alexien took a cup, inclined his head in thanks, then stepped aside for Serana.

"You were there? You actually saw it?"

"I did," said Serana. The servant offered her a cup, but she waved him away. "But I'm afraid my news might not be newsworthy after all. You've clearly already heard of the Dragon."

"Indirectly; it has also been seen attacking homesteads in the western hold. From Helgen we have heard only rumors, and that never from an eyewitness. Please, Serana of Solitude, tell us what you know."

Serana told her story. She mentioned Ulfric, but carefully left out anything about the Thalmor or the Imperial ambush. About her own actions she said as little as possible, but concentrated on the Dragon itself – on the hurricane of its wings, on the useless clatter of arrows against its scales, on its claws, its fire. Balgruuf interrupted often with questions, and discussed Serana's answers with a Dunmer woman at his side; then he apologized and bade her continue.

When Serana was finished, silence fell on the entire hall. The Jarl nodded. "You have told all you ought," he said, "and less than you might. Many great heroes have done worse. Your news is welcome indeed, and in happier days you would know our gratitude. But now we have work to do and plans to make. Will you help us – both of you?"

"However we can," said Serana.

"All that leaves us in no wise better off than we were before," said a gruff man on Balgruuf's right.

"In what way, Hrongar?"

"We still know not how to fight a dragon. Aye, we've learned that arrows do not harm it, and an entire legion in garrison could not stop it, for what good that does us."

"The legion was taken unawares," said the Dunmer woman. "We will not be."

"You have an idea, Irileth?"

Irileth bowed. "We kill it, my Jarl. The rest is only details. But we know from the stories of old that dragons _can_ be killed, and _were_ often killed, by bow or blade or magic. We have all three."

"If we can even trust old stories," said the steward.

"The same stories tell us of dragons, Proventus," said Irileth, "and they now seem real enough."

"I fear that we are overlooking an important point," Proventus went on, ignoring her. "Where did the dragon come from, and why did it attack Helgen? It cannot be coincidence, my Jarl, that it attacked where and when Ulfric was held captive."

Hrongar spat. "Dagon take Ulfric. There were also Thalmor at Helgen. Where the damn elves go, trouble always follows, sure as frost follows fall."

"I agree," said the steward. "Who does Ulfric's escape benefit? The Thalmor. They may be his enemy, but I am not sure he is theirs. As long as Ulfric lives, Skyrim is divided and the Empire is weakened."

"Are you suggesting that the Thalmor _summoned a dragon_ to save Ulfric?" demanded Irileth.

"I merely wish us to consider the politics of the situation. If the Empire –"

"The politics of the situation matter nothing to the farmers slain in the western hold."

"I –"

"Enough!" The Jarl slammed his fist down on the arm of his throne. "I don't give a damn about Ulfric or the Empire or even the Thalmor right now. A dragon is attacking my people. _My_ people, gods curse it, whom it is my duty to protect! By Talos, anyone who cares about anything else can leave my hall and not come back."

No one said a word.

"Farengar," Balgruuf began suddenly, "you have been unusually silent thus far. What is your counsel?"

The court wizard stepped forwards. "Both Irileth and Proventus speak wisely, my Jarl," he said. "Our first priority must assuredly be the defense of the city. It may be that we will have a chance, where Helgen did not, if we are prepared for the blow before it falls. But like Proventus, I am also concerned where the dragon came from. Knowledge is power, and we know but little, as yet."

"You have an idea?"

"One of which I would speak in private, my Jarl."

Balgruuf nodded. "So be it. Irileth: see to the defense of the city. Set every guardsman on duty, and call up the militia – every man and woman who can shoot a bow or hold a spear, I want ready at a moment's notice. Hrongar, take all the horses in the city, mount up, and take your scouts out to look for sign of the creature. If you see it, avoid fighting, and report back at once. Proventus, organize hospitals and shelters underground – the Temple of Arkay, Jorrvaskr, wherever you can think of – and make sure they're supplied, and make plans for the people to take refuge there in an orderly fashion. Farengar?"

"I would speak with our two guests; and then I have magics to prepare that may be of some help."

"Then do it." The Jarl stood, and everyone else in the hall stood with him. "An enemy is attacking our people," he said. "I don't care how many scales or teeth it has: it's alive, which means it can die. I expect every one of you to do your duty to protect the people of Whiterun. You will face no danger that I will not face myself. If you live, you will be the envy of all Skyrim, and my sworn blood-brothers. If you die, your families will be my family, and I will carve your names on the walls of Dragonsreach so that you are remembered forever. Do your jobs, and leave the rest to the gods: Akatosh will be with us. To your duty!"

Men slammed tankards of mead and ale down onto the tables in applause, then got up noisily and dispersed to their tasks.

Balgruuf turned to Alexien and Serana. "I thank you both, but must ask more of each of you," he said. "First, Farengar has requested your help. After that – Serana, go with Irileth: you have seen the dragon in action, you may have ideas to help organize the defense. Alexien, you are known to be a healer; go with Proventus and do what you can to make sure we are ready to receive casualties."

"It will be done, my Jarl," said Alexien, bowing. "If I may, I also have certain… talents that may be useful against the dragon, if it comes."

"My father told me that a healer is worth twenty warriors, but a clever man is worth forty," said Balgruuf. "You are reputed to be both. Do what you think best, and you will have my gratitude."

Alexien bowed again, Serana inclined her head, and they went to find the court wizard. A servant directed them to his quarters, a combination of a small library and laboratory. Farengar was hunched over a map; with one hand he directed a geometrical compass, with the other he scribbled notes and calculations on a sheet of paper. He looked up when they entered.

"Excellent, excellent," he said. He made one final measurement, jotted it down, and came to meet them. "Alexien, yes? I don't think we've met. You're from the College, I believe?"

A muscle in Alexien's jaw twitched. "I was trained at the College, yes. But I'm not a member anymore."

Farengar waved a hand. "What I mean is, you have intelligence, curiosity, perhaps insight; unlike the others, you'll want to know more about the dragon – not just smash it if it appears."

"I would _also_ like to smash it, if it's attacking the city," said Alexien. "But I would certainly prefer knowing more to knowing less. This is Serana, by the way."

"Another mage, eh? Excellent. I'm usually the only one here who knows or cares about these matters."

"Speaking of which, the Jarl said you had an idea."

Farengar nodded once, held up a hand, and went to close the doors to his study. He turned back towards them with a conspiratorial air.

"I do. I didn't want to say this out there, in case people panic, but… this is what concerns me." He leaned in closer. "They all assume that there is only one dragon, and that all we have to do is organize well enough to hunt it down and kill it. But what justification do we have for believing that there is only one? There should be _no_ dragons: no one has seen one in Tamriel for thousands of years. If _one_ has suddenly decided not to be extinct anymore – why not two, why not three? Why not dozens?"

"That's… a chilling thought," said Serana.

Alexien drummed his fingers on the table with the map. "I agree," he said. "We only have evidence for one dragon, but unless this one has been hiding in a cave for millennia and just happens to have chosen now to wake up, it's here for a reason. What that reason is, we have no idea; but we can't assume that killing this one will be the end of it."

"Exactly," said Farengar. "Yes, exactly. Better to be prepared for the worst, yes? And anyway, much more exciting!"

Serana raised an eyebrow. "Exciting?"

"Of course! One dragon may be just a fluke: a creature that crawled into a hole and hid, and has only now emerged by random chance. There is much we can learn from a single dragon, of course; but if there are _more_ of them, well, then now we have a world-shaking phenomenon unexplainable by our current standards of knowledge. We may well have to rewrite everything we think we know!"

"Brother Mathnan would need an update, certainly," said Alexien. "And maybe we'd finally be able to say something about the Dragon War that's not completely speculative mythography – if ever there was a topic ripe for a revisionist history, it's that one. Urag always said –"

Serana put a hand on his shoulder. "Dragon first, books later, love."

"Right. Sorry." Alexien shook his head. "So, you needed our help?"

"Indeed. Again, there is more we need to know: in particular, we need to know _why_ the dragon has suddenly appeared; otherwise we may be facing a dozen dragons instead of one, and we wouldn't know it until too late. Well. It so happens that a long-time project of mine" – Farengar waved a hand at the map – "may suddenly have become intensely relevant to current affairs."

Alexien looked it over. "A map of notable archaeological sites in Skyrim. Based on Clarisse Laurent's work, unless I'm mistaken. But you've been adding a lot to it. You're an explorer?"

"Alas, no," said Farengar, looking both crestfallen and relieved. "My duties keep me at court. But adventurers are always willing to describe what they've seen, for a handful of silver."

"No doubt. Hm. What are these lines you've drawn?"

"I'm sure you can figure it out."

Alexien traced a finger over a jagged line that ran roughly north-south. Some distance south of Whiterun it crossed another, east-west, that seemed to be drawn from mountain peak to mountain peak across Skyrim, starting at the Throat of the World. Alexien frowned, then glanced at the paper where Farengar had been jotting down measurements. "Power calculations? What… ah, you're tracing energy currents?"

"Well, trying to," said Farengar, but he looked pleased. "The magical atmosphere of Skyrim has always had a lot of interference, so it's hard to be sure of anything. Not like Cyrodiil, where the Ayleids placed their wells with mathematical precision. Most of these penciled lines are just hypotheses. The points in blue ink, though, are verified places of power – mostly old burial mounds, though a few are ancient ruins. I don't know why the mounds are so significant; I've never been able to get enough manpower to excavate one."

"This would all be fascinating if there weren't a dragon on the rampage," said Serana.

"Yes, yes, I was coming to that," said Farengar. He pointed at the spot south of Whiterun, where two lines crossed. "I've been wondering about this place. Bleak Falls Barrow. It's the most obvious place there's a convergence of these lines that's also a major archaeological site. Unexplored, of course. But local lore has always dated it to the Merethic Era."

"Which would mean it might be related to the Dragon Cult," said Alexien.

"Exactly. Assuming that they're real and weren't just an old myth told by the Atmoran settlers."

"Dragons are real, I don't see why the Dragon Cult can't be."

Serana shuddered. "Judging by the one I saw at Helgen – it wouldn't surprise me, if people worshipped them as gods."

"Helgen?" Alexien muttered. His eyes searched over the map. "Fuck."

"Indeed," said Farengar.

Serana craned her head to look. "Ah. Is that Helgen? It's… oh. It's quite close to the site, isn't it?"

"Yeah," said Alexien. "So, we have a confluence of these lines, which probably indicates a significant place of power, at a site that might be connected with the Dragon Cult; and of all these verified or hypothesized sites and confluences, this one just happens to be closest to a city attacked by the first dragon seen since, what, the First Era?"

"Scattered sightings in the early Second Era, but yes," said Farengar. "Of course, it could all be coincidence."

Serana snorted.

"It's worth investigating, certainly," said Alexien. "And you wanted a mage to do it, so we could sense if there's something to these hypothesized energy currents that are supposed to meet there."

"Well, if you have time to take a few measurements while you're there –"

"We'll see what we can do." Alexien straightened. "We'll have to travel quickly, if we want to be back in Whiterun in case… anyway, we should leave soon."

"And we still need to see Irileth and Proventus," said Serana.

"Right. Well, Farengar, this has been fun. We'll be back with good news – hopefully – within two days."

"My thanks. Julianos go with you."

* * *

Alexien found Proventus, but there was little enough for him to do about the hospitals and refuges. The priestesses of the Temple of Kynareth, though few, were competent enough in healing magic, and Whiterun's resident alchemist was donating all the potions she could brew. Alexien promised to do what he could when the time came, and otherwise let the steward get back to contingency planning.

Serana had more work, albeit not much. Irileth was organizing a militia and handing out bows, crossbows, and spears from Whiterun's armory, and establishing rally points where they were supposed to assemble under arms as soon as the alarm sounded. She was trying to marshal the militia into close formations, like during a proper battle, when Serana arrived and pointed out that if they stood close together the Dragon would just burn them all in one pass.

"Most of these men have never seen battle before," said Irileth, taking her aside. "They will feel braver standing shoulder to shoulder with comrades."

"They'll also be a lot deader that way," said Serana.

Irileth saw the point, and started drilling the archers to keep a loose formation with regular intervals. She asked Serana very specific questions about how the Dragon had dealt with the defenders at Helgen, and made tactical adjustments based on her answers.

Before they left the city, Alexien sat down to write and seal two letters, and requested that the steward send them by special courier.

_20 Last Seed, 4E 201._

_Alexien to Brelyna. Greetings._

~~_My dearest Brelyna_ ~~

~~_I hope you're well_ ~~

_~~You've trusted me before, when~~ _

_Remember that time I told you I had seen a dragon and you didn't believe me? Well, get ready for the biggest "I told you so" in history._

_I'm flippant in times like these, so you know it's really me writing._

_If you haven't yet heard in Winterhold, a dragon has been seen in the south. A real, honest-to-Akatosh, flying, fire-breathing dragon. It destroyed Helgen – I mean literally destroyed: the city is now rubble and ash – and has been attacking settlements near Whiterun. Serana saw the dragon herself, and could not stop it._

_Please, take this threat seriously, and make all possible precautions. Be careful. A dragon is like no other foe anyone in the College has ever faced. No degree of paranoia is unjustified, no amount of preparation is overkill. We have no reason to think it will attack Winterhold, but for the sake of all the gods, in case it does, be ready. _

_I also have a favor to ask. Draconology, you may well imagine, is not a subject to which I have devoted much attention. I've spoken to a dragon before, and still I know almost nothing about them. If you have time, please consult the Arcaneum, and let me know what texts ~~we~~ you have. Even a list of titles would be helpful; notable extracts, if you have time, would be more so; best of all would be copies of the most useful volumes. For whatever you can do, I shall be grateful. _

_Stay safe. Farewell._

_P.S. [The handwriting changes.] This is Serana. Alexien speaks for me as well. Do not underestimate the danger. If all goes well, I hope that we will see you again soon. Farewell._

_20 Last Seed, 4E 201._

_Lord Sir Alexien Percival de la Roche, Order of the Rose, to Lord Sir Percival Étienne de la Roche, Order of the Rose, Baron of Villesavin, and Lady Gabrielle de la Roche née Valoise. Greetings._

_If you are well, I rejoice to hear it; I am well._

_My long-suffering old tutor would shame himself for this letter, which I have no time to polish to the appropriate stylistic perfection. Indeed, I shame myself no less for the contents, when I have no time to write as a long absent son ought to write. Poorly pleads whose plea is time; but events press, and I must give, and request, news._

_While traveling in Skyrim, I met a group of our friends from Alinor, who learning my name and my family, and recognizing that they and I share an acquaintance, were most desirous, and indeed insistent, to repay to me the hospitality that it seems they have received from you. Alas, I have been so long absent from High Rock that my manners have suffered, and I refused them peremptorily and, dare I say, forcefully._

_I was unaware that these noble visitors from the Summerset Isles were known to our family, and I beg that you relate to me the circumstances under which this acquaintance was formed, and what have been the principal acts of reciprocity from both parties. Even in distant Skyrim, I feel myself bound to act in a manner appropriate to the relationship, if I am fortunate enough to meet with them again._

_With filial love, and in humble obedience, I bid you farewell._

"Anything you want to add to this one?" Alexien asked.

"Definitely not," said Serana.

* * *

Serana and Alexien left Whiterun by night, and made south with all the speed they could. Before noon they stopped in a cave to wait out the sun.

While there, they also passed the time practicing. Which to a casual observer would have had the appearance of trying to kill one another.

Alexien threw a thunderbolt at Serana, aimed straight for her chest; but she was already dodging as he raised his arm, and the attack missed. She responded with a spear of ice that Alexien deflected with a ward, but then Serana was charging into melee range, and he waved a hand at the stone floor of the cavern, turning it to the consistency of mud.

Serana had seen him do that before, and she adjusted her pace and leapt over the obstacle; but just as she landed Alexien hit her with a blast of telekinetic force, and she stumbled off balance.

If Alexien had cast another thunderbolt then, she couldn't have dodged; but he waited until she had regained her footing before throwing the spell at her. Serana blocked the attack, snarled in frustration, and charged again. She came in close and lashed out with her claws, and forced Alexien to take the blow on his arm.

Alexien hated fighting hand-to-hand. Which was why Serana made him practice it.

He feinted to the left, and even mixed in a little Illusion to sell the distraction; but the feint was obvious, and instead of following it Serana grabbed Alexien's right hand, with which he had just been making a spellcasting gesture, twisted, and flung him on his back.

Serana put the heel of her boot on Alexien's throat. "Yield?" she asked sweetly.

"Yield."

She didn't remove her foot. "What was your mistake?"

"Waking you up in that damn crypt."

"Your most recent mistake, I mean."

Alexien sighed. "I tried to do something clever instead of attacking straight-on."

"Which anyone who knows you knows you'd do," said Serana. "What else?"

"I was relying on my magic in hand-to-hand, even though I'm a supernaturally fast predator with flesh-rending claws I never use."

"Which, again, anyone who knows you would know to expect. What else?"

"Besides agreeing to follow you around Tamriel?"

"Besides that."

"Er…" Alexien thought. "Nothing else comes to mind."

"You had me, and you let your shot go," said Serana. "You could have ended the fight when I stumbled, but you waited to attack until you were sure I could avoid it."

"Which contributes to my overall purpose of not having a dead girlfriend."

"Which _defeats_ the overall purpose of practicing for real combat. If you hesitate when you're training, you'll hesitate when it's for real, and then _you're_ the dead one."

"That's an… interesting teaching philosophy. Where did you learn that?"

Serana removed her foot and offered Alexien a hand. He took it. "My mother," she said.

"Yeah, that explains a lot."

She ignored him. Alexien dusted himself off and buckled his sword back on.

"Alexien?" came Serana's voice.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Serana sat back against the cavern wall and gestured for Alexien to join her. "I've just… been thinking about something. Ever since Helgen."

Alexien nodded quietly for her to go on.

Serana took a moment to choose her words. "The point of us training together was to share each other's strengths, right?"

"Of course."

"Well… the only thing we haven't tried is one of yours. Because you're Dragonborn."

A moment's silence. "Ah. You mean the Words."

"The Words," Serana agreed. "I'm not even sure if it's possible for me to use them. But… when I faced the Dragon at Helgen, it was using them the same way you do. Which is interesting for its own reasons. But mainly, I don't like it when my enemies can do something I can't."

Alexien ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know if it's something I can teach, because it's not something I ever _learned,_ " he said. "I just… know it. Even before Hermaeus Mora showed me, remember? I understood the Word we found in your crypt, without ever having seen or studied it before."

Serana leaned closer to him, and her eyes flitted over his face. "You don't think I can do it."

"It's not that," he said firmly. "Gods above, Serana, you're _better_ than I am at most of these things."

"But?"

"But nothing. I'm not sure it's even technically possible. And… yes, I admit, as painful as it was for me when I used dragonfire at the Castle, I don't relish the idea of watching you do the same."

"But it's okay for me to watch you go through it?"

"I never said I'm not a hypocrite." Alexien paused. "Yeah, all right, fine. If you want to try, I have no objection."

Serana moved at once and sat cross-legged opposite him, waiting.

"We'll start with ice," said Alexien after a minute. "The word is _iiz_. Don't say it yet; I don't even like saying it casually."

She nodded.

"I don't know if it'll be the same for you," he said, "but the way it works for me is, I _feel_ the meaning of the word, _feel_ what it represents. But it's tied to my own experiences and my own memories; I think the word will mean something slightly different to you than it does to me."

"But it still has to have the same core meaning, right? If I say – that word, I won't accidentally summon fire instead of ice."

"Presumably not. But… even if you know, academically, that the word means _ice,_ if you've never felt that before – never seen frozen trees broken by a winter storm, never felt the bite of the wind on the northern coast of Skyrim – I don't think the word would do anything for you."

"I guess that makes sense," said Serana. "All magic works on imagination and intention. Same thing."

Alexien frowned. "It's… the same, and not the same. See, it's hard for me to explain."

"That's okay. What next?"

"So. The word we're working on means _ice._ Vampires don't feel temperature the same way, but do you remember what it's like to be cold?"

"Of course."

"Not just a little chilly," said Alexien. "The bone-deep cold of winter, when you've been freezing for days and no matter what you do you can't get warm."

Serana closed her eyes and thought. It had been a long time. But she thought she could remember, faintly, when she had been a girl in Castle Volkihar. She stayed in her room, and servants built her a fire; but no matter how high the fire burned, it never blocked the chill leaking in from the windows, it never warmed the cold stone of the floor beneath her bare feet. She would still sneak down to the basements to play, and would come back so chilled that her teeth chattered as if a frost giant were shaking her.

She nodded.

"Hold that feeling in your mind," Alexien went on. "Remember it as vividly as you can. Welcome it, embrace it; know in the depth of your soul that it's _real,_ more real than ever you imagined before. Do you have it?"

"I have it," she said, eyes still closed.

"Let that feeling spread through you, and build, and start to condense in your throat. Let it crystallize in your mind as the sound of that Word. Pour your will into that feeling, that image, that sound; and then – when you're ready – resolve that it be real, that it be true, and speak it."

Serana held on to the memory. She did as Alexien bade, and let it spread through her body, down to the very tips of her fingers. Finally she opened her mouth and cried aloud:

" _Iiz!_ "

Nothing happened.

"It's okay, that's exactly what I would have expected to happen for _anyone_ trying a new spell for the first time," said Alexien.

Serana sighed and sat back against the cavern wall. "We're trying this again tomorrow."

"Of course."

* * *

"I'm getting a sense of _déjà vu,_ " said Serana.

"You only say that because we've been in this exact scenario before," said Alexien.

"Staring at a hole in the ground that goes we don't know how deep, filled with we don't know what creatures that will try to tear our faces off?"

"Exactly. Nothing to worry about. Besides, it's probably just draugr."

"See, now you've jinxed it," said Serana. "You can't say things like that."

Alexien shrugged. They stood in what had once been a stone temple, facing what had once been a doorway; but time had worn the temple down to its foundations, and the doors lay fallen where water had eroded away their hinges. A staircase led down into darkness.

"Do you feel anything?" he asked suddenly.

"There's definitely _something_ down there, and you know it as well as I do; but I can't tell what."

Alexien nodded, sighed heavily, loosened his sword in its sheath, and started down the stairs. Serana followed just behind him.

The first thing they found was that they were not the only ones to have explored the ruin. They came to a large open hall, around which were scattered the remnants of a campsite, bedrolls and cooking utensils and packs and even half-burnt firewood. And bodies. Bodies not just dead, but torn and mangled, missing eyes and tongues and random chunks of flesh.

Alexien knelt, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve, and examined one of the bodies. "Definitely draugr," he said. "These look like axe wounds, and then they were… chewed on."

"Hopefully the axe wounds came first," said Serana.

Alexien raised a hand and cast Detect Undead. "Nothing nearby. Regardless, let's be careful. I don't think draugr can seriously threaten us –"

"Jinx," she muttered.

"– but all the same, I'm not eager to find out what one of those axes would do to us if they caught us by surprise."

"Yes, dad," Serana chanted.

Alexien ignored her. He stood up and went to continue down a passageway, but stopped suddenly. "Can you feel that?"

Serana closed her eyes and extended her senses. Some kind of power hung in the air, familiar and strange at the same time. "Necromancy?" she asked doubtfully.

"Maybe," said Alexien, frowning. "It reminds me more of… anyway, I think Farengar might be on to something after all."

"Well, whatever it is, it'll be stronger deeper down."

"We _do_ go to the nicest places together." He drew his sword. "I don't like this. It might just be draugr – but if you see something move, kill it and ask questions later."

Something in his tone chilled Serana. She agreed, and followed more carefully as Alexien led the way deeper into the ruin.

They descended another stairway. It was pitch black, but neither of them needed light to see; nonetheless Serana grew more tense with nerves every step they went. For the first time in a long time, the darkness felt dark.

Another large chamber supported by columns of stone opened before them. Alexien raised his hand again to cast Detect Undead, but before he could complete the spell Serana saw movement to their left and fired lightning at it on reflex.

A hiss of electricity, and the draugr sank to the floor.

"See? Just draugr," said Serana. She moved up beside Alexien, and they stood back-to-back facing outwards. "Just like when we met."

More of the corpses rose from niches on the wall or came running down hidden passages, snarling with their too-wide jaws, wielding bows and axes and greatswords of some dull black metal. Alexien parried an arrow with a ward, blocked a swordstroke from the nearest draugr, then seized it telekinetically and hurled it at the archer, knocking both over.

"Oh yes, nothing to worry about at all," he said drily.

Then they were busy fighting. For all they had made light of their enemy, the draugr were swift and strong, stronger than living humans; and they were many. Serana lay waste to them with lightning and ice, and any that dared come close she rent apart with her bare hands; Alexien battered them with telekinesis when they were still far off, then when they closed in he conjured a whip of flame in his left hand and set upon them with fire and sword.

But no warrior, not even those endowed with supernatural speed, can parry a dozen attacks at once. An arrow struck Alexien in the left shoulder, and he gave a startled sound and lost his concentration on the spell; the flame vanished. A greatsword came sweeping at him.

Suddenly Serana was there; she seized the greatsword from the draugr's hands and threw it clattering across the floor, and Alexien lunged and stuck his sword through its chest. He left it there and turned – another draugr, which Serana had neglected so she could deal with the one attacking him, swung an axe at her back – and he threw at it a jet of fire that set it burning like a torch.

Then he and Serana stood back-to-back again, facing in the opposite directions from how they had started, as a final wave of the undead descended on them.

Serana gave up on defense and leapt straight into the midst of those in front of her. Alexien didn't dare mimic her without his sword – damn it, she _was_ right about him needing to practice hand-to-hand – so he summoned a ward-shield in either hand, and blocked all the attacks from the draugr on his side and held them in place, until Serana had dealt with hers.

A few moments later, after Alexien had deflected what felt like a thousand arrows and sword-cuts, Serana turned and fell upon those still focused on him. The last draugr died almost before they realized she was there.

Then the fight was over.

At once Serana turned to Alexien's injury. She examined the arrow a moment, nodded, and pulled it smoothly from his shoulder. He gave a hiss of pain, and she said, "Oh, shush. It was just in the flesh. And it's not even barbed."

Alexien stretched his arm. "Yeah, but it _could_ have been."

She rolled her eyes. "Besides, be glad you're a vampire now. The arrow was almost certainly poisoned. And injuries like this don't hurt us as much as they would a human."

"I wouldn't know, I've never been _shot with a poisoned arrow_ before."

"I've always heard healers make the worst patients."

Alexien glared at her for a moment, then put on a dignified air and went to examine the draugr. He knelt over one, frowning slightly, and extended his left hand over it.

"What is it?" Serana asked.

He shook his head, took out a piece of chalk, and drew a circle around the body, then closed his eyes in concentration. "That energy we could sense above – it's coming from the draugr."

"So it _is_ necromancy," said Serana. "That's hardly surprising."

Alexien shook his head again. "No – well, yes – but it's also kind of the opposite. Most necromancy involves the caster expending power to reanimate a corpse, right?"

"Right."

"Well that isn't what's happening here," said Alexien. "The draugr aren't the target of whatever magic this is, they're the source of it. There are kind of… channels drawn around them, or siphons maybe. I think they lead deeper into the ruin."

"So… what does that mean?"

"I have no idea," he said, standing up. "You're the necromancy expert; does anything occur to you?"

Serana thought. "My training was always very specific and practical, not theoretical," she admitted. "But my best guess? It might be possible to use necromancy to draw off the life force of a living being. If you do that long enough, they'd probably be indistinguishable from any regular undead, even though they're technically something different."

"Why might someone do something like that?"

She shrugged. "You could use it to power a long-term spell or enchantment, probably, but soul gems would be less complicated. Not least because soul gems can't run away."

"So, if that's what's going on here, then the draugr – before they were draugr – must have been bound here in some way, so they couldn't just leave and travel outside the range of the spell."

"That, or they were willing," said Serana.

Alexien shuddered. "Regardless, now we're just speculating. Come on, let's see what there is farther down."

He stood and picked up his sword, and made to continue on. Serana stepped in front of him, put a hand on his shoulder to stop him, and said, smirking, "Hold on: wounded at the back, hale and hearty people up front."

"Come on, it was just a teeny little arrow."

"Oh sure, _now_ it's a teeny little arrow, but five minutes ago –"

"Fine, fine. Ladies first."

Serana gave him another smirk, then turned and led the way further down into the ruin. The stairway narrowed and wound back on itself, turning this way and that as if at random, but always descending. Periodically Serana stopped and let Alexien feel for traces of spellwork, to confirm they were still going the right way. They were: those channels of power led unvaryingly onwards and downwards.

Finally they came to a great open cavern, its ceiling and walls and stalactites the living rock of a natural cave, but the floor made of dressed stone. They moved forwards cautiously. On the opposite wall of the chamber was a huge monument: a curving stone wall with the head of a dragon carved above it. In front of it was an altar.

"Well, I'd say you don't get much better evidence of a Dragon Cult than that," said Serana.

Alexien snorted and went to examine the monument. Serana suddenly noticed that in front of the curved wall – at what would be its midpoint, if the circle were extended all the way around – was a smaller pedestal or stele, inscribed in dragon-language. It reminded her of a tombstone. Alexien traced his fingers over the writing, deep in thought.

"That's new," she said. "Can you read it?"

"Not really," he admitted. "Just a few words now and then. _Here_ – presumably the next word is _lies,_ so _here lies_ – no, it's plural, _here lie_ – _fallen –_ something about stars – then there's a name, I think it's _Alduin_ – according to mythology, Alduin the World-Eater was the first dragon, the son, brother, counterpart, or alter ego of Akatosh, depending on who you believe – _black wings_ , then…" he shook his head. "No, that's all I can make out."

The words _black wings_ brought back to Serana that nightmare-image of the Dragon: wings that filled the sky, darker than the darkness of night.

"What are those other markings?" she asked.

"Hm? Oh, I almost didn't notice… hard to say. A primitive map, maybe?"

"It's a bit too big to bring back with us."

"A scholar is never unprepared," said Alexien, already pulling a roll of paper and a stick of charcoal out of his pack. He held the paper up to the inscription and carefully rubbed the charcoal over it, until he had a perfect replica of it in negative.

He started to roll the paper up and store it away. "There. See, this was kind of fun after all. It's a long time since I got to do any kind of _normal_ work on –" 

Suddenly Serana's instincts screamed at her, and she shoved Alexien out of the way. A fraction of a second later they heard a hoarse shout, and a wave of force struck the stele and blasted it to fragments.

She turned and saw a draugr standing up from the altar, which had served it as a coffin. But… it wasn't quite like the other draugr. It was taller, and wore tattered robes that must once have been regal, covered still in scale armor. It leaned on a heavy wooden staff. On its head was a circlet of gold, and on its face, a mask.

"Well, if this is a temple," said Serana, "then I think we've found the priest."

Alexien stood and faced it, drawing his sword. Slowly they spread out and started to circle around, until they had it between them. It seemed to ignore them. It stood there, hunched over with age, supporting itself on its staff, and stared straight ahead.

Suddenly it spoke, still not moving or facing them: " _Zaamme, fod los tiid? Kolos rok?_ "

Alexien started. He lowered his blade slightly, and answered, in a halting voice: " _Ni… los zaam. Wo he – wo hi?_ "

The thing laughed. " _Tinvaak, ni faas hi? Nuz kolos rok?_ "

"Um, Alexien?"

"It thinks we're slaves," said Alexien. "Er… I think it's asking, 'Where is he?'"

"Dead for millennia, whoever it's asking about. We should help it join them."

Its head rotated towards Alexien, and it raised its staff. " _Zaamme fod ni aam, zahrahmiik_."

"I think that's a brilliant idea," he said hurriedly.

Electricity arced out and struck a barrier that Alexien raised only just in time. Serana hit it with a shard of ice from behind, and it staggered; then it turned on her and cried aloud:

" _FUS!_ "

It felt like a giant had swung a building at her; raw kinetic power hit her full-on, and before she realized she had been struck her back collided with the cavern wall, and she heard the stone crack behind her.

Alexien gave a shout of rage and lunged with his sword; but it raised the staff, and a wall of fire blazed up around it like an aura. Alexien covered his face and shrank back.

"Serana!" he called. "Are you –"

For answer she snarled in anger, clapped her hands together, then drew them apart; a ball of fire flared to life between them and she hurled it at the draugr. Her spell met the wall of flame around the creature, and melted into it. Its aura expanded and burned hotter.

It pointed at Alexien, and a tongue of flame leapt out and entwined itself around his torso. He screamed. He saw Serana hit it with a spell, saw it turn its back to him and face her, but the fire still burned around him. He felt his skin blistering.

Somehow, somewhere deep in his mind there was a patch of clarity, untouched by the pain. From there, with almost clinical detachment, he managed to find the fabric of the spell; and he gathered up enough concentration to pull the magic apart. The flame died.

The draugr was duelling Serana and didn't seem to know he had broken its spell. But it was closing in on her, and she kept having to backpedal away before its fire-aura could touch her.

Amid the panic he forced himself to stop; he closed his eyes, and searched through his memory, and found the coldness at the bottom of his soul; and this time it was harsh and pitiless as the heart of winter. He stretched out his left hand towards the creature, and shouted:

" _IIZ_ _!_ "

A hurricane of ice blew through the cavern. It met the wall of flame, and at first there was a sudden jet of steam; but the cold was stronger, and it wrapped around the spell and smothered it.

The thing faltered, and before it could recover Serana hit it with a thunderbolt; it spun around and landed on its knees in front of Alexien.

The mask had been knocked off its face. It looked much the same as any other draugr they had ever seen – except for its eyes. Its eyes were normal human eyes, hazel-colored, still bright as if with youth; and they stared up at Alexien in shock.

" _Hi… tinvaak? Los hi faal do_ – _?_ "

Alexien swung his sword two-handed, and took off its head.

Serana walked up to him. "What was it saying, there at the end?"

"Doesn't matter," said Alexien. "It was surprised. Now it's dead. Are you all right?"

"Forget me, are _you_ all right?"

Alexien looked down at his own burns in surprise. "Oh. Right. Er, ouch."

Serana shook her head, and pulled out a blood potion and handed it to him. "Drink this, then we'll rest here for a while. Good. Now sit down and don't move."

He let her guide him to where they could recline comfortably. "What do you think that was?" he asked.

"Best guess? Something like a demi-lich. It was drawing on the life-force of the other draugr to keep itself alive."

Alexien closed his eyes. His mind ran through Restoration spells, but he was so tired, from the fighting and the fire and the Word. Maybe Serana was right about resting. "Dragon Cult," he muttered. "Why is it always sacrifices and death magic and underground lairs with these cults? Where's the cult of kittens and fluffy pillows?"

"Died of embarrassment, probably. Now shut it and rest."

He ignored her. "Well, we certainly have something to tell Farengar."

"You won't if you keep talking, because I'll murder you myself."

"You already murdered me once, what's the worst you could do?"

She smiled innocently.

"Nevermind," he said, raising his hands in surrender, "I don't want to know the answer to that."

He closed his eyes again, and gradually his breathing slowed as he drifted off to sleep. Serana watched him a while, then leaned back herself and tried to get comfortable.

"Healers," she muttered. "The _worst_ patients."


	5. Dragon Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you who are still reading and commenting and leaving kudos! As always, I appreciate every single one of your comments, which have helped keep me motivated to continue this story.
> 
> Thanks also to the two readers who reread through all of _Darkness with Light_ : one of you helped put explicitly into words a lot of the themes I had been thinking of indistinctly, and one pointed out a few unfortunate stylistic quirks of mine. I wish I could say I have consistently followed their excellent recommendations.

Swirling darkness, clouds of poisonous green; the sharp smell of ink; and utter, absolute silence.

Alexien turned around and turned again, searching without finding.

"Somehow," he said, and his voice was loud in the stillness, "somehow I suspected it was too much to hope that our bargain would be the end of it."

 **"Is your complaint fair, little mageling?"** whispered a cold voice in his ear. **"Is it just? For without my help, you would both of you have perished."**

"Right. Because you're a famously altruistic benefactor of humanity. It's not like you have schemes within schemes that –"

A thunderclap suddenly went off in Alexien's head; he felt like his skull had cracked open, and the nauseating pain of the headache dropped him to his knees.

 **"Insolence against a God is unwise, mortal,"** he heard Hermaeus Mora say, amid a blur of agony; and it was like an earthquake was speaking. **"Especially one who knows that sarcasm is for you a crutch to support your fear. For I am the Lord of Fate; and you, Alexien, are** _ **mine**_ **."**

The pain released, as if a giant had been squeezing his head and suddenly let go. Alexien stood up cautiously, and decided that from that moment on he should avoid antagonizing a Daedric Lord in his own domain. Any more than was strictly necessary, anyway.

"Then, o Lord of Secrets," he said, with a slight bow, "if it is permitted to me to ask, why am I here? We have indeed made a bargain in the past, which your very self characterized as a fair and balanced trade: three Elder Scrolls, for the three fragments of knowledge I needed. With that exchange our business together was complete. Thus in what sense" – for he knew he could not let this claim go unchallenged – "am I _yours?_ "

That familiar, sickening green glow appeared in the direction Alexien had bowed, and swirling slowly condensed into the shape of a great eye. **"Hermaeus Mora is patient, mortal,"** it said after a long delay; and with that it seemed to feel it had fully answered Alexien's questions.

And maybe it had, in a way. A chill went down Alexien's spine.

"Let me guess, then: you're here to offer me a deal on reading the tablet Serana and I found."

 **"If you desire it,"** the voice purred, **"then certainly I** _ **could**_ **save you much time and many trials, and reveal to you what knowledge it contains."**

"What, and make me lose out on all the excitement of researching it myself? All the fun of visiting ancient libraries and poring over forgotten tomes? No thanks." Alexien paused, then went on in a slow voice: "But you already knew I would refuse such an offer. So, why have you brought me here?"

The voice did not answer.

"Great," he muttered. "I suppose you want me to do what I'm going to do anyway? That one was fun last time."

**"You stand within the very Gates of Oblivion and ask questions whose answer you already know in your heart. Regardless of what I say, you will do as you must."**

Alexien opened his mouth, but closed it again without speaking. The great eye blinked once, slowly, as if considering him.

 **"Perhaps,"** said the voice, suddenly whispering into his ear again from behind, **"I merely wish to… check up on my investments. Perhaps it is in my interest, no less than yours, that you survive what is coming."**

"'What is coming' – you mean the dragon?"

Cold laughter; the whole fabric of Oblivion seemed to vibrate with it, and it lashed out like tentacles around Alexien's skull. **"Mortals who inquire of me oft complain that they receive answers incomprehensible to them. But how could it be otherwise, when they understand not their own questions?"**

With that the nightmare image began to fade, and Alexien woke up.

* * *

He sat up suddenly, heart pounding. It took him several moments to calm down, before he could look around and realize where he was.

They were still underground, where they had lain down to rest after the combat. Serana slept beside him. She lay on her side, one hand nestled under her face, the other lying open between them, palm up. Alexien suddenly realized she had been holding his hand.

He watched her a long while, careful not to move any more lest he wake her.

 _None of this is fair,_ he thought. _Not to her._

With everything that she had been through, all the pointless turmoil of her early life, all the outright emotional abuse inflicted on her, she deserved, finally, after surviving and surmounting all of that – and in the process saving the lives of countless people who would never know her name – to have rest and to have peace. She liked traveling. She should be free to travel where she wanted, see what she wanted, without having to worry about the world falling to shit without her.

Going to High Rock together would have been fun. Serana seemed, if anything, to have been even more excited about it than he was. But now those hopes, that future, had been dashed to pieces; now she was throwing herself into danger again, with a selflessness both surprising and all the more admirable in someone who had endured what she had endured, who had earned, if anyone had, the right to be a little selfish.

And she was doing it because of him. And he didn't even want to. _Let the world take care of itself for once,_ he wanted to scream; he had already been weary, bone-weary from months of hurrying from one corner of Skyrim to another, when it looked like they would have to do it all over again. But at least _he_ didn't have a choice – for whatever it meant that he was Dragonborn, the gods surely had not bestowed such a gift, such a burden, without purpose. However unwanted and unwelcome that purpose may be.

He at least probably deserved it. Serana didn't. But him – he already knew the violence in the depth of his soul, the love of strife, that fire that would burn up all his humanity, that would leave him nothing but wrath the second he gave it a chance. He had felt it before, so many times before; but it had been growing stronger. And he suspected he knew why the gods had put it there. It made him an excellent weapon: a weapon to kill, ruin, and destroy, to create havoc and lay down desolation, and then be discarded.

For Stendarr's sake, he had already barely been keeping that love of violence bottled up inside him. Then he became a vampire, a creature of literal darkness, that lived its half-life by stealing life from others. And he didn't even regret it. Then he learned he was Dragonborn, which, whatever else it meant, meant that he had all the more power to bring death and destruction; and, if he was honest with himself, he didn't regret that either.

What had Meridia said? _"For I see that with Dawnbreaker you will bring ruin and death to many."_

Maybe that wasn't the curse of some Daedra. Maybe that was what he was, what he had always been meant to be. Maybe it was just his fate that the weight of the world pull down his soul.

But Serana – Serana deserved better.

Suddenly Serana began to stir beside him. She gave a little sigh and opened her eyes, and smiled when she saw Alexien.

"Good morning," she said.

"It's still night."

"Which is as good as morning, for us." She sat up and stretched. "We technically don't have to sleep, it's just… nice sometimes. But I've never been able to lie down for more than a few hours without getting restless." When Alexien didn't respond, she gave him an inquisitive look. "What's wrong? What's on your mind?"

"Nothing," he said. "Just… thinking we should probably head back to Whiterun soon. Gods forbid there be a crisis without us present."

"In that case, the gods will be sure to delay the crisis until we get back," said Serana. She looked skeptical. "But I agree. Come on, let's stop in Riverwood for a snack while it's still dark, then we'll be on our way."

Alexien nodded absently. Carefully he rolled up the sheet of paper bearing the dragon-script rubbing, the only remnant of the stele that had been shattered in the fight, and stored it in his pack; and together he and Serana left the ruin.

* * *

Back at Whiterun, they told Farengar what they had found. But they were left with more questions than answers. They had found a site associated with the Dragon Cult, certainly, and exactly where the theory said they would find it; but it was still far from clear if they had found anything that explained why a living, fire-breathing dragon was now on the loose.

The inscription was doubtless important, but Farengar could make out even less of it than Alexien.

"I'm afraid I never learned Dovahzul," he said apologetically.

"We can take it to the College," said Alexien. Only Serana noticed his voice catch slightly on the word. "I'm pretty sure the librarian, Urag, can read it. At least the late form that was still used as a prestige language in some parts of Skyrim into the mid-First Era."

"And if it's proper Merethic Era Dovahzul?" Farengar asked. "The language of the dragons themselves, taught by them to their servants the priests of the Dragon Cult? Assuming the myths are even –"

"It is," said Serana, "and they are."

Farengar turned to her with surprise – but before he could say anything there was a commotion outside, the sound of raised voices, then hurried footsteps and a knock on the door.

It was a messenger from Jarl Balgruuf, summoning them to council. "The dragon has been sighted," he said. "It is heading for Whiterun."

* * *

Alexien remembered little of what they discussed. Balgruuf did most of the speaking, though Serana interjected a few times; but he said nothing. His mind whirred on elsewhere.

A dragon. An actual dragon. Here, in Tamriel. Yes, he had seen Durnehviir before, but something in him had been sad, diminished, like an animal held in too small a cage. To see a dragon, live and wild and free, in its full magnificence, in the terrible splendor of its true self…

Some part of him – some deep and savage part that he didn't like to listen to on most occasions, but which now filled him with an almost holy longing – told him, _This is what we were born for; everything besides this is a lie._

He should be making plans. He should be thinking of strategy. But he didn't want to. He wanted to do away with the city, away with the walls, away with arrows and spears and swords, away even with Serana, and face the Dragon himself, in the open fields under the open sky, with no other being there to interfere in matters that did not concern them –

But that was madness. The Dragon did concern them; it was their city it was coming to destroy. And he could no more face it without help – without Serana's help – than he could sprout wings and fly up to meet it in the sky.

The sky! If only, if only…

Serana tapped him on the shoulder. He blinked and focused on her.

"Hey," she said. "Talking's over. Time to go to work."

"Right."

"You okay?"

Alexien opened his mouth, and started to tell her an outright lie. He stopped himself. "Not really," he admitted.

Serana laid a hand along his cheek. "We can talk when this is done," she said, and gave him a quick kiss. "All we want. Just one more big nasty thing to kill, and then we'll be off again, just the two of us. I think we'll have earned some peace and quiet together."

He nodded. But somehow he knew better.

* * *

Everyone who could hold a weapon took up positions on the walls or at the top of Dragonsreach. All the rest of the city was taking refuge underground, in the chambers beneath Jorrvaskr, the Temple of Arkay, Dragonsreach itself, all cut into the living rock on which Whiterun was built. But the civilians were slow and disorganized: some left their homes late, some before they were supposed to, some refused to go at all; many ignored the carefully made plans for evacuation and went wherever they deemed best, cramming the streets with people frightened and angry who were supposed to be elsewhere.

Alexien and Serana stood together on a stretch of wall near the Jarl himself. Balgruuf was watching the chaos with apparent detachment, though those who looked closely could see the anxiety in his eyes. He was simultaneously dispatching orders to get the evacuation back on track and trying to marshal the city's defenses. It wasn't going well.

It started to rain. A heavy, soaking rain, that poured down in waterfalls off the thatched roofs and turned dirty streets to mud. Thunder cracked overhead.

Alexien pushed his hair back. "At least we don't have to worry about fire," he muttered.

"Unless the Dragon can use ice; then we're all the more screwed," said Serana. "Or lightning. One good lightning strike would kill everyone on this section of the wall, when they're all wet like this."

"It's good to be with someone who always looks on the bright side."

Serana was silent a moment. " _Can_ it use lightning?"

"No idea," said Alexien. "If there's a Word for it, I don't know it."

"Some expert you are."

"If I were smart enough to have all the answers, I'd be smart enough not to be here."

"Alexien!" the Jarl called. Alexien approached and bowed. "Hrongar reported that the Dragon was approaching, but we can't see it through this storm. Can you find it before it finds us?"

"I can try, my Jarl."

"Then go with Farengar, and try."

Alexien gave another bow, and walked with Farengar to the top of a tower nearby. The archers posted there eyed the pair of wizards nervously and moved away in a hurry, leaving them alone. Alexien pulled out a piece of chalk; Farengar cast a spell to repel the rain, and Alexien started inscribing a circle on the now-dry floor.

"What are you doing?" asked Farengar, with professional interest.

"Dragons have a particular kind of aura," Alexien explained, still drawing sigils. "It's obvious from up close – say, within the range of a Detect spell. Further than that, it might be possible to sense the resonance of that power, but it'll probably require a circle as a focus. And a lot more energy than I want to expend right now on my own."

"Then it's fortunate there are two wizards in Whiterun."

"Three. But two should be enough." Alexien finished inscribing the circle, looked it over, and in sudden inspiration – he didn't know why – he took out a small knife, pricked his finger, and scattered over it a few drops of his own blood.

"You've seen a dragon before," said Farengar suddenly. It wasn't a question.

"Not this one. Here, come help me with this."

They busied themselves with arranging the final details of the spell, bending down to tinker with some of the symbols and imbue them with the proper wavelengths of magicka, working in silence.

Suddenly Farengar spoke, not looking up from the sigils: "You should know, by the way: I know what you are."

Alexien tensed and went inhumanly still.

"Don't worry, your secret is safe with me," said Farengar in a low voice. "But if I could figure it out… well, you seem like you want to help, and I think you should have the chance. You seem sincere."

"Then why risk saying anything to me? What if I decided I have to silence you?"

"Yes, well… it would be awkward if I always had to pretend I didn't know, and you had to be constantly on your guard lest I find out. Easier for both of us this way." Farengar finished what he was doing and stood up. "How long has it been?"

Alexien stood up with him, still half-tense. "Just a few months," he said.

"I see. Was it… no, none of my business. But thank you. What next?"

Alexien pointed to where Farengar should stand while he stepped inside the circle himself. He closed his eyes and focused on his goal, and he and Farengar both poured energy into the spell. Alexien let his senses expand; there was an odd stretching sensation as his magicka flowed into the circle, searching out in all directions, carrying his consciousness with it; then all at once he felt the spell shoot off like lightning, and he could sense the Dragon.

Strange: it didn't feel how he had expected from Serana's description. He had thought it would be titanic, world-shaking. But it was somehow… almost disappointing. The dragon was old, certainly, and mighty, a creature of power and dread from a forgotten age. But that was all; and for some reason, Alexien had wanted more.

"The dragon is miles to the east," he said, opening his eyes. "But it's flying swiftly and will be here soon."

"East?" asked Farengar. "Hrongar spotted it in the west."

"Then it's swung around to surprise us. Can you inform the Jarl? I need to get back to Serana."

"Of course."

Alexien bowed his thanks, then ran off over the ramparts to where he'd been standing with Serana.

"There you are," she said. "Having fun without me?"

"I saved the best part for you," Alexien answered. "Come on; the dragon's off that way, so the party is going to be over here."

Serana nodded, and without another word she followed him to another spot on the walls, facing the east. After a few minutes soldiers dispatched by the Jarl began gathering near them. The rain only grew heavier, and thunder boomed overhead.

Alexien stared at the horizon. _Not long now,_ a voice told him.

He turned and looked at the soldiers, dripping wet and miserable. Some watched him expectantly; most did not meet his eyes. They looked cold and terrified.

Alexien put on composure. Being raised a noble had some advantages: he could adopt a pose of cool confidence, of contempt for danger, no matter what he felt. He did so now. When he spoke, the militia heard only the command in his voice, and none of his worry:

"Well!" he cried in a loud voice, so that they all looked at him. "Men and women of Whiterun – congratulations! This will be a day to tell your grandchildren about, and they will tell it to their grandchildren in turn. Go on and say your thanks to the gods – for this will be a great day for everyone in Whiterun; but you, you in particular, who can hear my voice, are the most fortunate in the entire hold. You just happen to be standing near the only two living people in all Tamriel" – he pointed at himself and Serana – "who can claim _to have killed a dragon before._ "

It took a moment for his words to sink in; when they did, most looked skeptical, but some had expressions of hope. Alexien was aware of Serana watching him with surprise, but he did not look away from the soldiers.

"It was called Durnehviir the Dread," he went on, before anyone could express disbelief. "He gave us his name before dying. And that dragon, I promise you" – he pointed back over his shoulder, towards the clouds in the east – "was _twice_ the dragon as the one you're going to see today. What do you think a whole city of brave Nords will do to this one, when the two of us could kill that one? And me, being only a Breton!"

There was laughter, the laughter of nervous relief, and Alexien knew he had them. Serana tugged gently on his sleeve, but he ignored her. "Here's what's going to happen," he said. "The dragon is big, no denying that. So big all of you who have bows couldn't miss it even if you try. It knows that, so it's going to come swooping down out of the sky on its wings, because it thinks it can scare you into running if it flaps them at you enough. No doubt there will be a second when running sounds like a good idea. Run, and you'll die anyway, and Whiterun is doomed. But stand with me and fight, and this evening you'll all be feasting in the palace; and if they're lucky the Companions will be let in to sing songs about _you!_ "

More laughter, more determined this time. Serana tugged again on Alexien's sleeve and hissed something in his ear, and he turned and looked again out towards the horizon.

It was there, just at the edge of what their vampire eyes could see: a grey shape outlined against the sky, flying above the clouds. It came ever nearer. As soon as he saw it, Alexien's worry and his disappointment dissolved away, and he felt again that longing exultation. Soon, one of them would fall to the other.

"Nice speech," said Serana in a low voice. "What's the real plan?"

Alexien shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. "We let them kill the Dragon," he said, gesturing at the militia behind them.

"Be serious."

"I am. A company of archers can deal out more damage, in the aggregate, than any one mage. A few firebolts from me won't make any difference. No, instead I'll work on strengthening _their_ attacks – it should be relatively simple Alteration to make them hit harder. Maybe increasing the mass of arrows mid-flight? Tricky, but should be possible… I'll have to add energy, though, so that their velocity doesn't decrease in inverse proportion, but that's easy enough; I won't be able to do it all day, but for a few volleys… And of course a few relatively simple shield spells applied at the right time might save many lives, too."

Serana smirked. "I think I told you once you're the most boring spellcaster I've ever met."

"Boring is good," said Alexien. The dragon came nearer; some of the men behind him were pointing it out to each other. "If all goes well, today will pass without anything exciting happening."

"And while all this not-excitement is happening, what do you want me to do?"

"Whatever you feel is best. It's not like you'd listen to me anyway; I'm the boring one, after all."

Suddenly the dragon was close enough that all the city could see it. It gave a great roar; many of the militia clapped hands to ears, and some even fell to their knees. Out stretched its wings, grey and green against the darkened sky; and it sped up again into the clouds, and vanished from view.

"Damn it," Alexien cursed, "it's not going to make this easy, it's –"

"Alexien," said Serana in a hushed voice, "that's not the same dragon I saw at Helgen." He looked at her in surprise, and she went on: "That one was black. And… it was bigger. At least twice the size of this one."

"But… Serana, the one we just saw is every bit as big as Durnehviir."

"I know," she said. "And the one at Helgen was bigger."

Alexien had only a moment to consider the implications of that. The dragon's ear-splitting roar was heard again, shaking the very ground; and suddenly it appeared directly above them, wings folded back, darting down from the sky like a lightning bolt.

_**"** **Dir joorre; zu'u ofan hi wah Alduin!** **"** _

Several bows twanged, too early; the arrows never reached their target. Serana hurled a blast of thunder and hit the dragon directly in the middle of its chest, but she might have missed for all the good it did.

The dragon opened its mouth and loosed a hurricane of ice and frost. Alexien raised both arms and channeled power to block the attack, and gritted his teeth with effort – it was so strong, trying to stop it was like lifting a boulder – but he countered most of the cold. Some made it through his ward and coated the archers nearby with snow; they flinched in surprise but were unharmed.

Still the dragon dove down; at the last second before it hit the ground it opened its wings, seized a man in a great taloned claw, and took off again into the air. It crushed its unlucky victim in its grip and flung the broken remains far out over the walls.

Alexien cursed aloud. "Archers!" he called. "I'm going to try to bring it to ground; nock arrows, but don't shoot until it's down! Spears, ready charge!"

It didn't occur to anyone to disobey.

The dragon swept over the city from end to end, breathing ice, shattering towers and tearing open houses, leaving a swathe of destruction. Arrows clinked uselessly against the scales of its chest. It had the air of one enjoying a holiday.

It finished its pass and rose again into the air, then circled back again towards Alexien and Serana. Men and women shifted uneasily, but they stood their ground.

Alexien pointed a hand and reached out with his magicka. Just as the dragon opened its mouth again he touched the air around its wings, just as he had once brought Durnehviir down, and he manipulated the pressure.

The dragon's wings suddenly beat against nothing, and it roared in fury as it fell the length of a spear-throw. But then it opened its jaws and spoke a Word – Alexien couldn't hear it, but he felt the air tremble; then the whiplash of the broken spell hit him and he was knocked onto his back. He looked up and saw the dragon rising higher again.

But it had been stationary in the air for several seconds. The archers seized the opportunity, took aim, fired. From the ground Alexien waved a hand and sped the arrows on. Many missed, but more hit: they struck the underside of the beast with the sound of a hundred hammers battering flesh. Alexien's eyes could see several penetrating as far as the feathers.

The dragon roared again, in surprise and in pain. Serana hit it with a thunderbolt, and this time its whole body trembled, the electricity arcing through it all the stronger for the rain and the metal now piercing its flesh. Alexien thought it was ready to fall.

But out came its wings, and the dragon soared up again; it made a great circle on high before leveling out for another pass. Now it headed straight for them: whether because it recognized a threat and wanted to deal with it, or because it had been hurt and craved vengeance.

The archers drew, Serana channeled lightning, Alexien raised a protective ward over all; he held several spells ready in his concentration, prepared for anything, except what happened.

At the last second before they loosed their attacks, the dragon swerved aside, and as it did so it cried aloud:

 _**"FUS RO DAH!"** _

The stone wall on which Serana and Alexien stood was shattered by the blast; the wave of energy crashed through rock and mortar like a child smashing a sandcastle and cast a shower of broken rubble upon everyone standing behind it. Fragments of jagged stone, flying near the speed of sound, tore flesh and crushed bone; the dead fell before they could scream, and the wounded screamed before they knew what had happened.

Alexien and Serana fell straight down as the ground beneath their feet crumbled. Alexien had a moment to realize that the dragon hadn't been aiming at them, but at the wall itself, and he had never thought to try to shield the wall.

Serana found her feet first. She rose up out of the rubble, covered in dust and bleeding from a dozen cuts. She spat out a mouthful of blood and looked for the dragon.

Its massive shadow passed over them like the wings of death, and then it started to circle around again.

"Dagon take it!" she cursed. Alexien struggled to stand beside her, and Serana whirled on him: "Alexien, do – do _something,_ just get us through its next attack!"

He nodded. Serana turned back towards the dragon.

Again those vast wings stretched out, again it swept down upon them like an eagle on its prey, and Serana thought she could see triumph in its eyes. She imagined wiping that triumph from its face and felt a surge of fierce joy. Alexien cast some kind of spell around her, but she paid it no mind: all her focus was bent elsewhere.

Joy, and light, light in this darkness: of that they had need. Serana raised her left arm and called on Auriel's Bow, and it answered; familiar gold fire burned in her hand, and without hesitation – before she could think, before she could relish the sensation, before, hopefully, the dragon could react – she drew back and loosed.

The dragon hadn't expected an attack. Finishing off stricken and dying mortals, who had annoyed him like the bites of so many flies, had been its game; that he might face of a sudden the very fires of Akatosh (Eldest curse him!) had never entered its mind.

The flare of gold, searing pain, a scream that shook the heavens, cracked stone, shattered glass; Serana looked away and covered her face. She did not see how the Arrow tore through the dragon's wing, how it burned up a spray of blood in smoke; but she saw the dragon fall.

Momentum still carried it forward over their heads, and it slammed into a stone tower like a comet. Rubble rained down, which Alexien easily deflected away from the wounded. Serana came to stand beside him.

"You make the plans next time," he said. She only grinned.

Then the dragon moved.

It writhed and struggled to its feet, and tore down more buildings around it as it flailed out in pain and rage. It righted itself facing them.

It looked terrible. Half its left wing was gone, burned away, leaving the leathery skin around the wound black and oozing. Its feet stamped the ground beneath it, breaking the stone beneath its claws; its neck writhed like a snake, jaws snapping furiously at the air. But still its eyes were bright with life and malice; still its muscles were taught with power; still it bore a sad majesty in every line of its features, features cruel, certainly, but wise beyond the wisdom of man.

Shouts of triumph and derision. The soldiery and militia of Whiterun approached, standing on what walls still stood nearby, creeping cautiously over rubble. Archers shot arrow after arrow at the downed beast; men who had not dared face it before now ran up and jabbed at it with spears, hacked at it with axes; and the dragon roared again with pain.

Alexien's heart went out to it. Such a being, blood of divinity, remnant of days before days, shouldn't die like this, brought down by lesser creatures, a giant stung to death by ants…

He almost cheered, when he realized that the dragon was far from defeated. Its tail swept armored soldiers aside like a broom sweeping away so much litter; it stretched out its wings, and even the broken remains of its left wing were still vast and strong: they blew up a whirlwind of dust and fragments of stone, and men cringed back before it. Then it turned towards the archers on the wall and opened its mouth.

"Alexien!" Serana called, and in haste she raised again her left hand, reached again for Auriel's Bow –

The dragon whirled on her, faster than anything that size could possibly be, and spoke a Word; and just as Serana drew back the Bow a wave of force struck her and blasted her off her feet. The dragon roared and charged towards her.

Alexien stepped into its path. A sudden hush fell, and even the rain and thunder seemed to go silent. Amid devastation and death, amid blood and rubble, Alexien stood before the dragon. He raised a hand to bid it stop, and heard himself saying in a clear voice: " _Hi ni fen vod, dovah! Ni amativ, ni daar sul._ "

The dragon froze. It stopped in the middle of its charge, one leg still raised off the ground, and stared at Alexien.

Alexien thought to order everyone else to stand back, to let him fight alone; but there was no need. No one seemed even to breathe in the stillness.

Suddenly the dragon sat back, folding its wings behind it. It gave a faint inclination of its head. **"** _ **Zin ahkrin tinvaak**_ **,"** it said, in an almost human voice; **"I honor your bravery with speech. Foolish you may be – yet your defeat will bring me honor."**

"And if I defeat you?"

It laughed. **"Do you seek glory, mortal? Do you seek fame, like a knight from the stories they still tell about us? I have crushed many such knights; I have killed many mighty warriors of old, and their like is not in the world today."**

"Perhaps," said Alexien. "And perhaps, hiding wherever you've been hiding, you know not the strength of the world today. What is your name?"

The dragon growled dangerously and rose to its feet. **"You speak before me, and you dare ask my name? No, mortal:** _ **zin dinok**_ **, I honor your death; let that be enough for you. Are you ready?"**

"I am ready."

At the same moment the dragon and Alexien both cried aloud, voices splitting the air like thunder:

 _**"IIZ!"** _

_"YOL!"_

The dragon's ice met Alexien's fire, and their power was equal and opposite. There was a sound like a mountainslide, a light too bright to look upon, a cloud of steam; and as the echo of their voices still reverberated throughout the city the dragon came charging through the mist, jaws wide, teeth like naked swords.

Alexien had already raised both arms over his head. He closed his eyes, and searched for the power that he knew was always just at the back of his mind; and there was the Oghma Infinium. He seized it in his thoughts, and with it he reached on high, high over the city, high up into the clouds, until he could touch the storm overhead.

Even as the dragon descended upon him Alexien opened his eyes, loosed the spell, and pulled down lightning from the sky: not a surge of electricity, not a blast of magical thunder, but a true lightning strike, hotter than the sun, swifter than thought, loud as the hammer of the gods striking the earth. It flashed upon the dragon, and for an instant the darkness was bright as noon day; and the dragon was pierced with metal and soaked with rain. It convulsed once and fell at Alexien's feet.

Even then, it was not yet dead. It struggled to raise its eyes up. _**"Los… ni joor,"**_ it groaned. _**"Zu'u mindok hi, Dovahkiin!"**_

Alexien tottered on his feet from the effort, and only just kept from collapsing. "What is your name?" he demanded again, in a shaky voice.

The dragon did not answer. It tried to snarl a curse but could not summon the breath. Its head sank down to the ground. For a moment, its eyes were wide with terror; then they were empty.

Alexien couldn't care anymore. He fell to his hands and knees, vision swimming.

A hand touched his shoulder. Serana's hand. His own closed over hers, and he tried to stand.

"Easy," came her voice. "Gods, Alexien…"

"Serana? Are you all right? What about –"

"I'm fine," she said soothingly. "There were… casualties, but it's not as bad as it might have been."

"Thanks to you two of you," said a male voice. Jarl Balgruuf was approaching. "Never have I seen –"

He was cut off suddenly; the murmurs of onlookers that Alexien only then realized had been gathering were hushed. The corpse of the dragon had begun to glow.

Light like slow fire burned through its flesh from within. Even as they watched, its body was consumed by the light, skin, scales, tissues, muscles, organs all, until nothing remained to it but bones, bones wreathed in flame. The fire stretched out towards Alexien, as if drawn to him; and it rose and flowed into him like water.

For a moment, Alexien's kneeling form glowed with that same light; then as suddenly as it had started it went out, and he was alone in front of the dragon's skeleton.

"Mirmulnir," he said suddenly. He rose to his feet. "Its name was Mirmulnir."

Serana put a hand again on his shoulder, tentatively. He did not react.

"Dragonborn…"

Alexien looked up and saw the Jarl, staring at him open-mouthed. He was aware again of the crowd pressed around, of the whispers.

"Dragonborn!" said the Jarl again, in a louder voice. He strode forward, seized Alexien's right hand, and kissed it; then he lifted it high as if acclaiming a champion. "People of Whiterun – Alexien of Winterhold, the Dragonborn!"

As if on cue, there was a crack of thunder overhead, the clouds parted, and a chorus of voices reverberated across the sky:

_"DO VAH KIIN!"_

At that the people of Whiterun, guards and militia and civilians who had crept out, merchants and craftsmen and priests, men and women and children, all went wild with applause, waving, stamping, clapping, cheering. One voice was raised above the others in song, and one after another they all joined in, singing an ancient hymn in honor of Talos, the divine, the mighty Talos; he who was Ysmir, Dragon of the North; he who was Dragonborn.

Only Serana could tell how much Alexien hated it all.


	6. Breezehome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On this beautiful snowy morning, please accept this short light-hearted chapter as a bit of an interlude, while I work on pacing out the next chapters some more.

Serana and Alexien stayed in Whiterun some weeks after the dragon's death. This despite the fact that, as some residents were eager to point out, they should be elsewhere.

"That voice? That was the Greybeards," Hrongar told them at least a dozen times. "Up in High Hrothgar. You have been summoned, Dragonborn."

"When they summon 'Alexien,' we'll talk," Alexien always answered. It broke Serana's heart that she could tell he didn't mean it, and was already mentally preparing himself to face… whatever these Greybeards wanted.

But the rest of the city was by no means in any hurry to be rid of them. Quite the contrary. Their part in the battle had not gone unnoticed, and rumors flew about where these two heroes had come from and how they had arrived in Whiterun. Alexien's favorite was that Serana had been sent by Akatosh, who gave her the golden Bow as a sign of his favor, and that he was her bodyguard. Serana's favorite was that Alexien was Talos reborn and she was an aspect of Kynareth.

Wherever they had come from, everyone in Whiterun had seen how they stood against the dragon when no one else could, and that Alexien had spent all the rest of that day and all the next night running from one corner of the city to another, healing the wounded wherever he found them; and that for this he had accepted nothing but thanks.

Thus it seemed that all the city knew their names. They could hardly walk through the street without applause and thanks, without people pointing them out to one another and whispering excitedly, without mothers and children coming up to them and thanking them, by name, for having saved spouse or parent or sibling. One gruff-looking old Nord met them and bowed to Alexien, saying he had heard that was a sign of respect among Bretons. A girl who couldn't have been older than five tugged on Serana's cloak and gave her a chain of wildflowers, and burst into tears when Serana put it around her neck.

Jarl Balgruuf had also shown his appreciation. He gave them a house. An honest-to-Akatosh house, with walls and a roof and beds and furniture and everything. And, more surprising, he didn't make a big show of it: he asked them to meet him in private, and offered them the house more with the air of one requesting a favor than giving a gift:

"Please, both of you," said Balgruuf, pressing their hands, "accept Breezehome as but a small return. I know it is less than you deserve, but it is as much as is in my power to give – at least materially, for the freedom of the city is yours. As long as I or my heirs live, you will always have a home in Whiterun; and the more often you are here, the happier you will find me."

Alexien didn't trust himself to speak, and Serana accepted on his behalf. Later that night, she found him lying in bed – in _their_ bed, in _their_ house – crying.

* * *

But no good thing is untinged with evil. Now that the dragon was defeated, and they had settled in Whiterun, Alexien and Serana found themselves confronting the most terrible foe they had ever faced.

They had to host a dinner party.

The Jarl, besides giving them Breezehome, had also named Alexien a thane of Whiterun – purely a ceremonial position, Proventus Avenicci was quick to explain afterwards. And this ceremonial position also came with a housecarl, a dark-haired woman by the name of Lydia, whom Balgruuf assigned to Alexien's service while he was still open-mouthed in surprise.

Lydia's position – it went without saying, according to Proventus – was also purely ceremonial: she would of course stay on in Whiterun, but whenever Alexien was in the city or appeared at Dragonsreach, she would attend him as a sign that he was a person of importance.

It wasn't entirely clear to Alexien if Lydia knew or cared that her position was "purely ceremonial." She knelt before Alexien and laid her sword at his feet, kissed his hand, and swore the traditional oath of allegiance. Alexien had a moment of panic when he realized he didn't know what the proper response was in Skyrim, and finally, after stammering something (all the while aware of Serana snickering in his peripheral vision), he answered with the style of counter-oath customary in Wayrest.

Lydia – whom he at least didn't want to offend – seemed satisfied. Doubtless they had warned her that he was only a Breton and she shouldn't expect too much.

Regardless, he did at least know – and Serana reminded him, and then for good measure Proventus reminded him again – that, by Nord custom, a thane invited all new retainers to a shared meal, to be eaten together at the thane's house as a sign of hospitality and mutual loyalty.

Fortunately, Alexien now had a house to invite Lydia to, so that was something.

Unfortunately, he didn't eat food anymore. And neither he nor Serana had ever cooked a proper meal in their (un-)lives.

Alexien dealt with the crisis in his usual way: he bought a book (in this case, a cookbook) and studied it. His face fell in horror as he read and realized how little he knew about this subject.

"Serana," he asked once, eyes wide, "what's the difference between a stock pot and a sauce pan? There aren't any diagrams and this cursed book doesn't have a glossary."

"Er… cooking wasn't exactly a subject my parents put much emphasis on me learning," she said. "It kind of sounds like more your thing."

"My thing?"

"Well, yeah," said Serana. "Aren't Bretons supposed to love fancy food?"

"Eating it, and eating too much of it, sure," said Alexien, raising an eyebrow. "But we always had cooks to actually – I'm a noble, remember?"

"And I'm a princess, remember?"

"Touché." He closed the book with a sigh – after carefully marking his place, of course – and set it aside. "Okay, so we are both of us equally hopeless here. Any ideas?"

"Do nothing?" Serana suggested.

"Don't want to be rude."

"Don't accept Lydia as a housecarl?"

"Too late for that."

"Enthrall her?"

"Be serious."

"Okay, fine, don't enthrall her – but just use a _teensy_ bit of mental manipulation to make her think this meal has already happened."

"Oh. That's… not a terrible idea, actually."

"And that it was delicious."

"Nope, too unbelievable, you lost me."

"You're always so picky." Serana threw up her hands in mock-exasperation. "We could always just have the Bannered Mare deliver food."

"With what money? What I had when we left – left Winterhold is gone, and I know you've been running low lately too."

"Don't be naive. You just saved the city from a dragon –"

" _We_ saved the city from a dragon."

"But I'm not the Dragonborn, am I? The point is, you just have to hint what you want, and the whole city will trip over themselves to do you a favor."

"That's… huh. That might work. Would that be considered gauche on an occasion like this, do you think?"

"Not as much as not eating this shared meal you're supposed to be sharing."

Alexien waved a hand dismissively. "That's easy: Illusion."

"You're going to keep up the illusion that you're eating food, constantly, for several hours without interruption?"

"Er… well, when you put it like that – Serana, would you like to help me use magic to deceive my new housecarl so I don't hurt her feelings?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

The dinner went surprisingly well, all things considered. Lydia took the occasion seriously but was a pleasant companion; Serana liked her enough to feel a little guilty about the deception.

After Lydia left, the emotional effort of conversation had been so tiring for Alexien and Serana that they spent the rest of the evening quietly reading, sitting close enough to touch but otherwise (at least outwardly) ignoring each other's presence.

Later in the night they curled up together in bed. Serana laid her head on Alexien's shoulder, and he put an arm around her and played with her hair while she sighed contentedly.

"Being normal is exhausting," Serana murmured. "How do people do it every day?"

"I have no idea. Give me undead horrors trying to kill us in dank old caverns any day of the week."

Serana chuckled. Suddenly she rolled over so that she was looking directly in Alexien's face. Her eyes searched his and she bit her lip. "Alexien?"

"Hm?"

"Are you… all right? Really?"

He froze, then swallowed. "No. No, I'm not all right." His hand started playing with her hair again. "But please, Serana, I don't want to talk about that right now. Right now, here with you – everything is perfect."

Serana's gaze flitted over his face a moment longer, then she nodded, kissed him on the forehead, and laid her head back on his shoulder. Alexien held her close and did not let go.


	7. Rumors of Dragons

_28 Last Seed, 4E 201._

_Brelyna to Alexien. Greetings._

_I swear to Azura, some god is watching over you and making sure your letters always arrive at the most melodramatic moment possible._

_Just yesterday, the townspeople of Winterhold were passing rumors about dragons that had been seen in the Rift, and Faralda asked J'zargo and yours truly to go investigate. (Also, sending a Dunmer and a Khajiit to interrogate a bunch of scared superstitious Nords – seriously, Faralda?) We had just established that no one actually knew if the dragons were for real, but if they_ _were_ _it was_ _definitely_ _the College's fault, when a courier brought your letter._

 _I had just read through it ("the biggest 'I told you so' in history" – gods I hate you), when, yes, of course, obviously a dragon chose_ _that exact moment_ _to fly over our heads. Back to the College J'zargo and I went, at a calm and collected pace that did not at all resemble panicked flight._

 _Well, I have no idea what that dragon was expecting when it decided to attack Winterhold, but it wasn't several dozen world-class mages who were_ _super_ _annoyed that their reading time had been interrupted by the tiny matter of an extinct semi-divine behemoth appearing on their doorstep. While the rest of us were flinging fire and lightning at it, Savos and Tolfdir did some spellwork that bound its wings together, and down it came. (The town was slightly damaged – just slightly! – but they blame us, of course.) It broke their spell somehow and took off again, glad enough to get away with its scaly hide intact. So now everyone's hitting the library to find out what in Oblivion is going on._

_Speaking of sneaky cowardly reptiles, Ancano. That snake is up to something. He didn't come out to help us against the dragon, and when I went back to the College I found him in the main hall, staring at the Eye of Magnus like it was his secret lover and he finally had time to be alone with her. Obviously he's here spying for the Thalmor – I mean, duh – and I think Elenwen sees the College as a threat to their presence in Skyrim; but I don't know how his obsession with the Eye fits into all that._

_Magic and politics, ugh, I might as well go back to Sadrith Mora._

_ At your request, I had a look in the Arcaneum (along with everyone else in the College) for anything we had on draconology. Would you believe Urag was actually at a loss? I think even Savos was stunned he didn't just snap his fingers and summon up Brother Foreknowledge's Pre-History (get it?) of Dragon Attacks in the Fourth Era, in eight volumes. I managed to find a few monographs, but nothing particularly illuminating (yet!). _

_Which is all to say – about now would be a great time to see you again. Are you and Serana planning to come back to Winterhold? Tolfdir has been asking about you. So has Ancano, for that matter, but I doubt for the same reasons. Farewell._

* * *

_4 Hearthfire, 4E 201._

_Serana to Brelyna. Greetings._

_Your timing is impeccable. Alexien and I are still in Whiterun, but we're leaving tomorrow. He's currently talking to the Jarl about a whole bunch of boring stuff that apparently requires a lot of words and bows and handshakes, and he asked me to write you back for him._

_Have you heard about the dragon attack on Whiterun yet? Whiterun's fine; the dragon, less so. The rumors you'll hear are mostly false. Except for the most extravagant ones: they're almost true._

_Alexien laughed aloud at the narration of your own dragon encounter, by the way. Then he spent an hour worrying whether you were injured and just didn't say anything about it. If you're missing an arm or something, let us know before we see you._

_Because, yes: we will be coming to Winterhold. We were planning to come anyway; Alexien is desperate_ _to ~~hit the library~~ _ _I mean see you, of course. But I don't know when we'll be there. First we have to stop by Ivarstead and climb up the Throat of the World, and talk to a bunch of hermits who live at the mountain top. Long story. But after that, we'll head for Winterhold._

_We've had our own encounters with the Thalmor. Please tell Ancano as little as possible – otherwise, as many lies as possible. "Be creative," is Alexien's exact wording. Farewell._

_P.S. Send any letters to Ivarstead and we'll pick them up there on our way out._

_P.P.S. [The handwriting changes.] This is Alexien. It goes without saying that Serana speaks for me; but, Brelyna, I wanted to write you in my own hand as well, and give you my own best wishes directly. We will see you (hopefully) soon. Farewell._

* * *

They left Whiterun in the dead of night. Serana had to remind Alexien that they should feed before starting their journey – he had been forgetting things like that lately – so they snuck into a house before leaving the city. The gates were closed until morning, and they had to jump out over the walls, then rejoin the main road.

The crossroads appeared before them. It was almost the exact center of Skyrim: from here they could take a road leading to any corner of the province. The last time they had been here, they had been heading south and west, towards High Rock. This time they stood in the middle of the crossroads for a while, silently staring off to the south; then without a word they took the road to the east. Ivarstead, the village of the Seven Thousand Steps, was waiting for them.

In the foothills, a little before dawn, they were ambushed by bandits.

The bandits regretted it – but not for long.

After that, they followed the scent back to the bandits' camp. Alexien killed those who had been left on guard. He hadn't even drawn his sword. They found the largest and cleanest tent, which had been set up in the shadow of an overhanging rock, and sat down inside it to wait out the daylight.

The sun rose higher, and Serana watched Alexien. His arms were folded over his chest, head bowed; his hood was up, so she couldn't see his face. He had spoken only a few words since leaving Whiterun.

Serana wondered whether she should leave him alone. If he didn't want to talk, he didn't want to talk. But that thought bothered Serana more than she wanted to admit.

"Alexien?" she tried tentatively. He looked up at her. "What's… look, I'm just going to say it: I've been worried about you lately. You've been… you know can tell me what's wrong."

His eyes met hers for a second, then fell away again. "It's nothing. Nothing there's any help for, anyway."

"Bullshit," said Serana. "You and I both know that's bullshit. If you don't want to tell me, that's one thing, but –"

"I do," Alexien interrupted. "That is… usually. Just…" He sighed and fell silent. When Serana thought he would refuse to say any more, he asked: "Do you remember, just before we faced your father, when I met Meridia? And how she gave me Dawnbreaker?"

"I remember," she said slowly.

"Have I ever told you what she said? _Why_ she lent me the sword?"

Serana shook her head.

Alexien’s voice turned bitter. "Because I would use it to kill. Her very words were that I would ‘bring ruin and death to many.’ And I have, Serana. Because… because maybe that's all I'm good for."

Serana moved to sit closer to him. "I think I understand," she said. "But I also think you're wrong. That's not what you are to me. And yes, we've both lived violent lives, there's no denying that; but everyone you've fought, Alexien – they all deserved it. You've only done what you had to do."

"There's always someone who _deserves_ it," said Alexien. "And they always just happen to cross paths with me. Vampires? Dead. And I can't even confidently say they all deserved it anymore, now that I'm… and these bandits?" He waved a hand. "Did they all deserve it? All of them? How am I to know that? But whether they did or didn't, it doesn't matter: they were in my way, so they're dead. And then there's…" His voice trailed off.

"The dragon?" Serana suggested gently.

"Serana, it's… I don't think I've told you what it's like for me, whenever I've seen one."

"Then why don't you? I'm listening."

"That's the problem."

It took her a moment to realize what he meant. "You're ashamed," she said. "You're worried what I'll think of you if you tell me."

Alexien looked away from her, and nodded.

"You idiot," said Serana.

"Thank you?"

"No, I mean it," she said. "That's not a decision you get to make for me. And anyway, you should know better than that by now. Alexien, I loved you before all this, and nothing is going to change that."

He took her hand, but still did not look at her. "All right," he said. "Whenever I've seen a dragon – when we saw Durnehviir, and then Mirmulnir at Whiterun – it's like… like nothing else matters. Not even…" – he gripped her hand more tightly – "not even you, Serana. All I want is to face it, just me, just it, until one of us is the victor and the other is dead. Everything else I am – _everything_ , Serana – is burned up like smoke."

Serana bit her lip. "And you're worried it's because you're Dragonborn."

"It's not just that I've lived a violent life," said Alexien. "It's that… what if that's what I'm _meant_ for? Just a tool of the gods, a weapon to strike down whoever or whatever _deserves_ it. What if that's all I am? I'm not human, Serana – not just because you turned me: I never _was_ human."

They both fell silent, and for a long while the only sound was the wind outside.

"I'm sorry," Alexien said suddenly. "But you did ask."

Serana gave a laugh. "I did. You don't need to apologize, Alexien: not to me. I was just thinking… thinking you're assuming more than we actually know. Maybe these Greybeards will be able to tell us more."

"Maybe. And maybe we won't like to hear it."

She sat forward suddenly, and Alexien turned to look at her. "Then fuck what they have to say," she said. "Look, if you aren't human, then there aren't any: you're still the best person I've ever met. It's _normal_ to be troubled by everything you've had to do, everything we've had to do. Only a monster wouldn't be; and the fact you are is proof you aren't. But I don't care about any of that. Whatever else you are, whatever else you're 'meant' to be – you're mine. I claimed you, remember? You're stuck with me now."

Alexien snorted. "That works out great for _me_ , but are you sure _you_ deserve –"

Serana kissed him, so quickly he gave a little noise of surprise. Then he relaxed into the kiss, put an arm around her waist, and drew her close. Serana rested her hands on his collarbone and moved so that she was straddling him.

Only after a long time did Serana break the kiss, but she did not move away. One hand went up to stroke the side of his face. "I'm pretty sure I warned you," she said, smiling, "that I was going to do that whenever you say something stupid."

"And I'm pretty sure I warned you that you're giving me bad incentives."

Serana grinned. "Well now, that depends on what I want, doesn't it?"

* * *

"Gods _damn_ it!" Serana cursed.

She had tried again to cast _iiz_ , and again nothing had happened.

"That's okay," said Alexien, with the patience possessed only by teachers and saints. "It was a good try."

"Like Oblivion it was." Serana sat back. They had stopped again overday, not bothering to travel as quickly as they could, and were resting now in the mouth of a cave. They weren't quite sure if they had entered the Rift or were still in Eastmarch. "You'd think, by the fourth blasted attempt, I should have at least felt _something_."

"We knew this would be difficult."

"Easy for you to say."

"Well, that's kind of the point," he said. "We don't actually know if this is possible for you or not. And even if it is, remember: I was _born_ with this ability, apparently, and even I couldn't actually use it until after I made a deal with a Daedric Prince."

"Great idea," said Serana. "Just give him a call, and –"

Alexien's voice was suddenly harsh: "Not even as a joke, Serana."

Serana ran a hand through her hair. "Sorry," she said, after a moment. "I'm just frustrated."

"I know. It's okay."

Serana looked outside. Dusk would come soon, but for now sunlight still danced through the trees, shifting whenever a breeze rustled the branches.

"I think," she said, "I'm just not feeling ice. I want to try a different Word."

"Did you have a particular one in mind?"

"Fire."

Alexien choked. "Gods, Serana – that's – seriously?"

She turned back to him. "Why not?"

"Because it almost killed me when I did it?"

"I don't want to use all three Words," said Serana. "Just one. Tentatively. Also, I'm not stupid enough to try calling up _sunfire_ at the same time."

"It did the job," Alexien said defensively. "But yes, fine, fair points. Why fire, though? If anything, it'll be harder than ice."

"Do we actually know if that's true, though? It's true for you – but as you've said repeatedly, the meaning of the Words is tied to each person's own experience: they'll mean something slightly different to me than they do to you. What's true for you might not be true for me."

"But fire, Serana? Dragonfire?"

"I've been thinking about that." She sat up straighter. "I have Auriel's Bow, don't I? It's Aedric; and according to you, dragons and dragonfire are also Aedric. If they're both basically the same thing, maybe it'll actually be _easier_ for me to grasp."

"That's… huh," said Alexien. "You know, there might be something to that."

"See?"

"Or you could just incinerate yourself. Or me. Or both of us."

"What's a little risk of mutual incineration between friends?" asked Serana. "The point is, I want to try fire, and I'm not letting this go until we do."

Alexien hesitated a moment, sighed resignedly, and shifted back to a position opposite her, so that they were sitting cross-legged and facing one another. Serana grinned.

"All right," Alexien started. Serana closed her eyes, and Alexien's voice took on the quality of a chant. "The Word… is _yol_. Fire. Focus on the sound, and let the meaning swell up in your heart. For me, it's a cleansing fire: a light that flares up in the darkness, and makes it not dark; a warmth that burns away the cold of death; a flame that sears and scours all that it touches, like a furnace purifying gold, and everything in its path is either enkindled with it or consumed by it. Now – what does it mean to you?"

Serana thought. She tried not to force the sensation, tried to keep her mind focused on the word, and let its meaning form itself in her unbidden. For a while she felt nothing. Then, as if of themselves, the memories suddenly came back to her, memories of days long past. It was the smell, more than anything: the comfortable smell of wood smoke, of fresh bread baking when she snuck down to the kitchens, of the great hearthfires on festal days when the hall was filled with guests, filled with the scents of roast meat and hot baked apples and those little pastries she had liked as a girl…

Home. That was what the word meant to her: the hearthflame of home, where one was hale and happy and safe from the darkness outside, the place one would die to protect, would fight to defend with fire and sword and tooth and nail and the fury of the gods themselves, against all who would harm it.

Serana turned to face outside, raised a hand – was only dimly aware of Alexien suddenly yelling "Fuck!" and drawing a ward – and cried aloud:

_"Yol!"_

Her voice cracked the air, and there was a faint reverberation of power – and nothing else.

Serana threw her hands up in frustration. "I _had_ it that time," she said. "I fucking had it!"

Alexien relaxed his hand from the warding gesture. "I know. Whatever you were thinking of, it almost worked. I felt…" He frowned. "I don't know what I felt, but it was definitely something. I thought you were about to ash both of us."

She banged her head back against the wall and groaned. "I had it," she said again. The memories were already starting to fade. "No way I can do better than that. I really felt it, like – like _who I am_ was in that attempt."

"That's… probably why it almost worked," said Alexien. He hesitated. "It's worth trying again, at some point – but please, not right now. I don't think my heart can take the stress of that again."

Serana sighed. "I don't know that I have it in me to try again. That feeling, it was so… so intense, so real." She looked up, biting her lip. "Is it like that for you? Every time?"

"It's… hard to say. Probably." He sat next to her. "I don't enjoy doing it, certainly. You put it well: it's too real."

They were silent a while. Serana noticed that the sun had gone down outside and climbed to her feet.

"Come on," she said. "Night's back, so it's time we got to Ivarstead."

* * *

No one knew when Ivarstead had been founded. In Skyrim, where every peasant recounted the deeds of their great-great-grandfathers like their own, and in every town the oldest citizens passed down the oral histories they had heard as children, that was remarkable. No stories told of the founding of Ivarstead, for no stories still told remembered a time when it had not been.

Not that it had ever been a great city or the site of a famous battle. It was, and as far as anyone knew had always been, a way-station: a small town at the foot of the Throat of the World, built for pilgrims who sought to climb the Seven Thousand Steps, to meditate before the inscribed tablets that few now could read, to pray, if they were fortunate, in the sanctum of High Hrothgar itself.

Scholars from the College of Winterhold pointed out that the town therefore obviously had to post-date the founding of High Hrothgar by Jurgen Windcaller towards the end of the First Era. The local Nords paid them no mind: for according to them, when Jurgen came to the holy mountain he found the Seven Thousand Steps already there; and at their base, Ivarstead.

Where then, the scholars would ask, did the Seven Thousand Steps lead, if not to High Hrothgar? Obviously to the top of the mountain, the locals would reply, and go back to drinking their mead.

It was evening when Serana and Alexien arrived in the town. Lamps were still lit, and the noise of many voices rose from Ivarstead's inns, which, as befitted inns frequented by pilgrims from all over the province, were famous places to hear news and swap rumors.

They made their way to the largest inn. Entering they left their hoods up: but no one paid that any notice, for the wearing of hoods and cloaks seemed to be a fashion statement among pilgrims. A frazzled-looking barmaid welcomed them, introduced herself as Lynly, and bade them sit anywhere they could find a seat, then disappeared to wait on other patrons.

It was indeed crowded. Alexien and Serana found two seats open at a long table where other guests were drinking and talking, and sat down between them.

The man sitting next to Serana clapped her on the shoulder jovially. "Welcome, travelers!" he said. "Just looking for a drink, or to hear the news?"

"What news is there?" asked Alexien.

"What news!" the man cried in astonishment. "What other news is there, except the dragons?"

"The Thalmor," said a second man nearby.

"The war," said a woman sitting with him.

"Bah!" said the first man, waving a hand dismissively. "Elves causing trouble and Nords fighting over it, what's new about that?" He turned back to Serana. "Name's Klimmek, by the way."

"Serana."

"Alexien."

"All the way from High Rock, eh? Now don't be like that, I meant no offense; went over the mountains to Evermore once myself, years and years ago, and found it a nice enough place, people very welcoming and such, not at all like they say."

Alexien was saved having to answer by the barmaid Lynly, who chose that moment to reappear. He ordered a bottle of wine and, after a moment's pause, three cups, and had one set in front of Klimmek.

"Now that's very kind of you, traveler."

"What was that about dragons?" Serana asked him.

"Well now, how much have you heard?"

"We know about Helgen."

"Aye, then you've heard the worst," Klimmek said darkly, "but not all of it; and you haven't heard the best either."

"How so?" asked Serana.

Klimmek paused before speaking, perhaps for suspense, and drank off his wine. Serana grabbed the bottle from Alexien and refilled his cup.

"Well," he started, "when we heard about Helgen, we all assumed a dragon had just woken up cranky or something like that, right? Maybe an old egg forgotten in some cave somewhere had hatched, who knows? But then, people started telling of _more_ dragons."

"How many?"

"No telling, is there? More than half of travelers' tales are lies, no offense meant; but even if less than half of them are true, it's bad." Klimmek started counting on his fingers. "Helgen, Winterhold, the Rift, the Pale, Whiterun, just for starters. Now, I know what you're thinking: How do we know it's not just one dragon, seen several times?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," said Serana.

Klimmek leaned in close. "Because, they all look different. They say the one that did Helgen was black. Others have been all different colors: green, white, grey, even a red one."

"And they're all smaller than the one at Helgen," another man broke in.

"Bah," said Klimmek. "I've heard those stories too: so big its wings blotted out the sun. That's just because it was the first one seen, and people were the most scared to see it."

Serana and Alexien shared a meaningful glance. Alexien started to ask a question, but another woman sitting at their table beat him to it: "And what about Whiterun, eh? You're leaving out the best part."

"I'm getting there, I'm getting there," said Klimmek. "So, a dragon attacks Whiterun, right? Probably planning to do the same for it as the other did for Helgen, though who knows why dragons do what they do. Well, Whiterun's still there, and the dragon isn't. What do you think happened to it?"

Alexien tried to look curious while also hiding his face. Serana bade Klimmek go on, but the other woman sitting with them interrupted instead: "The Dragonborn!"

"A Dragonborn, anyway," Klimmek clarified. "If I've heard one story about it I've heard a dozen, and all of them different – but they all agree, there was a Dragonborn at Whiterun, and he killed the dragon dead."

"Or she," said the woman. "Remember, that one merchant from Rorikstead said it was a woman."

"A dozen stories, and all different," Klimmek said again. "One version I heard even said the Dragonborn's a mage!"

He paused and looked at Serana, as if expecting her to laugh; she forced a chuckle.

"No way," another man broke in. "My cousin saw him, or talked to someone who did, anyway; and he says the Dragonborn's tall as a giant, wielding an axe big as Ysgramor's in one hand, and he shouted the dragon right out of the sky."

"That _does_ sound like the Dragonborn," said Serana drily.

The man's eyes went wide. "You've seen him?"

"We've met," said Alexien, without looking up. He downed his wine and poured another cup.

Klimmek waved a hand and got back to his story. "Now, I'm sure you're wondering, how do they know he was Dragonborn, eh? Lots of heroes around – the Companions are in Whiterun, after all – but an actual Dragonborn, like Talos himself?" He leaned close. "Because of the dragon's soul," he said in a low voice. "See, after he killed the dragon, he absorbed its soul: just like in the legends. And of the dragon there wasn't anything left but its skeleton."

"I never heard that Talos killed a dragon, let alone did anything with its soul," said the other woman.

"There weren't any dragons around for him to kill, were there?" asked Klimmek. "But haven't you heard about the Dragon War? Haven't you heard about the old Blades? The Akaviri hunted dragons, and killed lots of them too; but they always wanted a Dragonborn with them, because everyone knows that's the only way a dead dragon stays dead."

Silence.

"What?" Serana asked, genuinely astounded for the first time.

Before Klimmek could answer, the barmaid Lynly came and tapped on Serana's shoulder. "Your room is ready, my lady, if you would follow me."

"I'm sorry? I didn't –" but Serana saw the look on Lynly's face, nodded, and got up to follow her. She gave Alexien a quick kiss. "See you later."

Lynly led the way to a room off the main hall. Serana followed her in and shut the door behind them.

"All right," Serana asked in a quiet voice, "what's this about?"

Lynly looked around once, as if in fear; then, deciding it was safe, said in a quick whisper: "Look, I don't know who you two are or what your business is, and I don't want to know. But just two days ago the Thalmor were here – here in this very inn! – asking if anyone had seen a pair of travelers who looked… well, who looked an awful lot like you, my lady, you and your friend."

A shiver went down Serana's spine. "How many were there? What was the description they gave?"

"There were a few soldiers, I only saw three but I think there were more outside; but the one who did all the talking was a mage, you know, the ones who wear those black robes? And –"

"Did he give his name?"

"It was… Rulindil, I think? But he said…" Lynly swallowed. "He said he was looking for a pair of extremely dangerous criminals: a woman, Nord, tall, dark-haired, in a hooded cloak, no weapon; and a man with a Breton accent, a little shorter, also dark-haired, dressed like a wizard but carrying a sword. And he didn't give your – their! – their names either, but he said he'd pay for information, pay a  _ lot  _ for information, if anyone saw you come through…"

"Fantastic," muttered Serana. "And why are you telling me this?"

The girl blinked. "I mean… it's the Thalmor, you know? And if they're after you – I mean, again, I don't know who you are and I don't want to know – but if they're after you, I figure you have to be all right. But not everyone in Ivarstead would be above selling you to the Thalmor, not for that kind of silver."

Serana was silent a moment. "Thank you. Lynly, right?" The girl nodded. "Well, Lynly, I'm grateful that you're telling us instead of them. I don't have any money to give you as thanks, but –"

"Oh no, that's not why – I just thought someone should warn you. So you know to be careful."

"We will. Thanks again."

* * *

"Someone mentioned the war," Alexien was saying to Klimmek. He refilled their wine again. "The last I heard, Ulfric was captured and brought to Helgen."

"Aye, but he didn't stay captured, did he?"

"He made it out of Helgen?"

Klimmek chuckled. "Hoping he didn't, eh? Lot of people in Skyrim feel that way, especially the ones that ain't from here. Yeah, Ulfric made it out, and he made sure the Empire knows it. Stormcloaks ambushed a column of the Legion as it was crossing the Darkwater; rumor says Ulfric killed them all even after they surrendered, but you know what they say about rumor."

"I also know what they say about Ulfric," said Alexien. "You don't get a title like 'Butcher of Markarth' for nothing."

"Well, I don't know anything about that," said Klimmek. "What I do know is, that made some of the other Jarls think he might just win. Empire's been in a bad way lately, half the provinces are going or gone already; why not Skyrim too, they say?"

"Have you heard who's supporting him?"

"Openly? Just two so far: Jarl Laila, over in Riften; and Jarl what's-his-name, up in Winterhold."

"Jarl Korir. Yeah, that figures."

Klimmek took a long drink of wine. "You know, I'm impressed you still haven't asked the first question every pilgrim always asks."

"Oh? Let me guess, then: Are there really seven thousand steps?"

"That's the one," he said, chuckling. "And to answer it: not anymore, there aren't. Maybe there used to be. But I've been up to High Hrothgar, and I counted; and there isn't half that number now."

"That's common," said Alexien. "I'll bet any amount of money you're willing to wager that we could go take a walk around town right now, and find bits of stone that used to be the Seven Thousand Steps built into the walls of half the houses. Why quarry stone when there's a supply ready nearby?"

Klimmek laughed again and opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment Serana reappeared. She tapped Alexien on the shoulder. "Time to go," she said.

Alexien looked up at her in surprise, but nodded. "Of course." He turned and put a few coins down on the table for the wine. "Klimmek, a pleasure talking with you."

"And with you, and with you. You two have a good night."

Alexien got up, went to leave, then stopped suddenly. He turned back to Klimmek. "One last question," he said. "You said you've been to High Hrothgar. What's it like?"

Klimmek bowed his head reverently. "No words," he said. "It's like it's the only place there is. Maybe that doesn't make any sense now, but you'll see what I mean."

"I hope so. Good night."

With that, Alexien followed Serana outside. Once they left the inn, Serana checked that no one was watching them, then disappeared into the shadows around a street corner.

"What's going on?" Alexien asked her, in a whisper.

"Thalmor," Serana whispered back. "They were here, looking for us. And paying for information. The girl at the inn said – Alexien?"

Alexien had stood straight up, fists clenching and unclenching at his side. A look of such hatred was on his face that Serana almost took a step back.

"Alexien?" she asked again.

"I warned them," he said. His voice trembled with anger. "I warned them, Serana. I told them what I would do if they dared –"

"Alexien," said Serana, in a hard voice. "Hey. Come on, this isn't you."

He glared at her a moment, then closed his eyes. His fists clenched once more before relaxing. A deep breath, and he opened his eyes again. "Right. Sorry."

"Is it –?"

"Yeah," said Alexien.

Serana nodded. "Well, in light of everything, then, I think we shouldn't wait here any longer. Let's head up this mountain and get it over with."

"Agreed. High Hrothgar, here we come." He paused a second. "This… I _am_ glad we're doing this together, Serana. I couldn't… and if half of what I've heard is true, it should be well worth our seeing."

"Of course we're doing this together," said Serana. She grinned. "Don't get sappy now, though! Come on, let's go find these Seven Thousand Steps I've heard so much about."

With that, she grabbed his hand, and together they took off for the mountain.


	8. The Way of the Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had written some chapter notes with my own thoughts here... but I deleted them, because I usually think that authors are, if anything, worse at interpreting their own work than their readers are.
> 
> So let me just say, thanks as always for reading and for all your comments! <3
> 
> Fun music notes: I always listen to music when writing, usually symphonic metal or something from a soundtrack, but for this chapter I basically had Gregorian chant on endless loop.

The way up the Seven Thousand Steps was long, and hard to find.

Given that most of the steps had either been covered by rockslides and avalanches or else been carted away over the years, it was difficult just to find the correct starting point. Alexien and Serana spent some time in a confused maze of hiking trails at the foot of the mountain, and the one they ended up following at first turned out to be a goat track that dead-ended on a cliff.

Finally, a large stone stele with an inscribed tablet told them that they had found the right way. Soon afterwards they stumbled across exposed stone stairs and followed them up the mountain.

And they climbed.

And climbed.

Every so often they found another of those inscribed stone stelai. By common agreement Serana and Alexien always stopped to read them, then sat a while and meditated on their meaning.

What each thought, they kept to themselves, in silence: to make a noise in that place, even to discuss what they saw and read, seemed irreverent. But always when they were ready to continue on, Alexien placed a hand on the stone and traced over the letters, then he and Serana would lock eyes for a moment in silent understanding, and resume the climb.

They found that the stelai were numbered. Some they read out of order, and – again by unspoken agreement – retraced their steps to find the inscription they had missed. Alexien committed them all to memory, in order; and in after days, he wrote them all out for himself in calligraphy, and posted the list on the wall of his home. This is how he remembered it then:

> _Before the birth of men, the Dragons ruled Mundus.  
> _ _Their Word was the Voice, and they spoke only in True Need.  
> _ _For the Voice could blot out the sky and flood the land._
> 
> _Men were born and spread over the face of Nirn,  
> _ _and the Dragons presided over the crawling masses;  
> _ _for men were weak then, and had no Voice._
> 
> _With roaring tongues the Dragons conquer:  
> _ _the Eldest usurped the throne of gods,  
> _ _and men bowed beneath his Word._
> 
> _The spirits of men were young in elder days,  
> _ _unafraid to war with Dragons and their Voice;  
> _ _but the Dragons shouted them down, and broke their hearts._
> 
> _Kyne called on Paarthurnax, to pity man.  
> _ _Together they taught men to speak.  
> _ _Thus raged the Dragon War, Voice against Voice._
> 
> _Men prevailed, shouting Alduin out of the world,  
> _ _Proving for all that their Voice was strong,  
> _ _too strong – for their sacrifices were many and much._
> 
> _With roaring tongues the Sky-Children conquer:  
> _ _empire they founded with sword and Voice,  
> _ _and Dragons withdrew from the world._
> 
> _The Tongues from Red Mountain went away humbled.  
> _ _Jurgen Windcaller meditated seven years,  
> _ _to understand how Voices strong, too strong, could fail._
> 
> _He chose silence, and his silence  
> _ _the seventeen disputants could not shout down.  
> _ _Jurgen the Calm built his home on the Throat of the World._
> 
> _For years all silent, the Greybeards spoke one name:  
> _ _Tiber Septim they summoned to Hrothgar,  
> _ _blessed him, and named him Dovahkiin._

The final tablet was hardest to read, as if it had been intentionally defaced, and the name _Tiber Septim_ was only an educated guess. Some little distance ahead of it they found an eleventh stele. It was as old and weathered as any of the others – but it was blank and without writing.

* * *

Even in late summer the Throat of the World was deep with snow. Alexien trudged through drifts that came up over his knees, while Serana danced lightly on the surface – a trick of hers that he had assumed was because she was a vampire, but now had to admit was because she was just that much more graceful than him.

Finally, when even Serana was showing her exhaustion from the climb, they reached a broad flat shoulder near the top of the mountain. They noticed first the sudden stillness, somehow crisp, as if all sound had been frozen on the air. Alexien pushed back his hood and looked up. It was only early evening, but the stars were already visible overhead, brighter than he had ever seen them, in a sky clearer than he had ever imagined it.

Serana's fingers intertwined with his. She let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh, and started to say something; but she stopped herself.

They walked to the western side of the shoulder, boots making a sharp, clear crunch in the snow. From the very edge of the cliff face they stared out, and in the far distance, where the horizon fell away into darkness, they could just discern the sun glinting off the roofs of Whiterun.

 _That's where home is_ , thought Serana – but she didn't want to say it aloud and break the spell.

The shadows of evening lengthened, and still they only looked out. Suddenly Alexien, hand still intertwined with Serana's, gave her arm a gentle tug and pulled her around to face him, and then he was kissing her, slowly and deeply.

When Serana broke away, she gave a quiet little laugh, and smiling touched her forehead to Alexien's. "Ready?"

He closed his eyes, stepped back, and nodded. And then they turned their gaze where they had so far avoided looking.

High Hrothgar rose up to the north of them, nestled under a sheer cliff leading up to the summit, black and cold against the sky. No snow lay on it: all its ancient stonework lay exposed, as if it were part of the living rock of the mountain itself, stripped bare by sun and wind and an age of ages.

There were windows, but light was in none of them. It might have been abandoned, might have stood there, alone and uncaring of its loneliness, for many mortal lifetimes.

But Alexien knew it was not abandoned.

"Alexien?" Serana asked, in a low voice. "Are you all right?"

"I will be," he said, without looking away from the walls of the monastery.

Serana's fingers found his again. "Listen, Alexien – I'm here for you. You know that. But this is your party, not mine. Once we're in there, I'm just going to follow your lead and stay out of your way, and let you do whatever you need to do. But even if I'm behind you, I'll be beside you, okay?"

"I – thank you, Serana."

She gave him a smile, and went to walk forwards.

"Serana, wait a second." She turned back to face him, and he lowered his eyes. "Before we go in. I… Thank you for saying that, Serana. But I don't know what we're going to learn in there. About what I am, or what I might have to do. If…" He took a deep breath. "If, afterwards, you don't want to… don't want to stay, I promise I'll understand. I won't blame you."

It took Serana a moment to even understand what he was talking about. When she did, without saying a word, she walked back to Alexien, put her arms around him, and pulled him tight against her. He buried his face against her shoulder and she kissed his forehead.

"You are such an idiot sometimes," she said fondly.

He gave a sound that might have been either a laugh or a sob.

"Alexien – do you want me here?"

"Of course I do. Whatever… whatever happens afterwards, Serana, I need you here for this."

"Then I'll be here for this. And for afterwards. Look at me. There is nothing – absolutely nothing – that those crazy old hermits can possibly say or do or think, that could ever make me leave your side. As long as you want me there. And if you think otherwise, then you're being so stupid that I'll just have to keep kissing you you until you realize the error of your ways."

He laughed again. "All right, Serana."

She kissed him once more, and let her lips linger, just for a moment. "I'll be right beside you the whole time. Now come on, let's go get this over with together." A grin spread across her face. "And I just used up my supply of emotion for the next month or two, so that had better have been enough encouragement."

"Wow. Way to ruin a great moment."

"It's how I keep you coming back for more," she said. Then her face turned serious again. "Are you ready?"

"I'm ready," he said.

* * *

Serana closed the heavy bronze door behind them. It shut with a great, reverberating clang that echoed too loud through the stillness. The entry hall was dark, lit only by a single brazier; its trembling light did not reach the ceiling high overhead, and served only to emphasize the shadows.

Alexien and Serana waited at the entrance. Some spell held their steps. After some short time, a hooded figure with slow tread walked down a flight of stairs into the hall. He stood opposite them, outlined against the brazier behind him.

For a long while the figure said nothing. When he spoke, it was in barely a whisper, but a heavy whisper that could not but be heard: "At the turning of the age, a Dragonborn appears, and comes to High Hrothgar."

Alexien glanced at Serana, who gave him a nod. He took a step forwards. But before he could say anything, the figure spoke again: "Why have you come to us?"

Alexien started to open his mouth at once to say, with some defiance, _Because you called me_ – but somehow he knew that the question was truly a question. It was not a challenge or a demand; the Greybeard was truly asking his motives for coming. And _Because you called me_ was not the true answer to that question.

After a long time, he said, "To learn what it means to be Dragonborn. Can you teach me that?"

"That depends on why you wish to learn," said the Greybeard. "Is it mere curiosity that brings you here, Dragonborn? The interest of a scholar, who seeks to measure and catalog and file away?"

"No," said Alexien. But then he hesitated again. Several emotions seemed at war on his face. Finally he answered, "I need to know what I am."

"But that is not all, is it? Perhaps not even the greater part. For you also seek to know what you are not."

As they spoke, three more hooded figures, silent as ghosts, entered the hall one after another. Alexien said nothing.

The first figure took a step closer and lowered his hood. He was a man old but strong, tall still and upright, with long hair and long beard; his eyes were bright and deep. "I am Master Arngeir, and I speak for the Greybeards."

Alexien started to give his courtier's bow, but something stopped him. He said simply, "My name is Alexien."

Arngeir's eyes went once to Serana, standing behind Alexien. A look of recognition passed over his face; but he remained impassive, and turned his gaze again upon Alexien.

"And this is Serana," Alexien added. "She goes where I go."

"Then she will be welcome here with you," said Arngeir. "If you are."

Alexien frowned. "If?"

"Yes. Those only are welcome here who wish to be."

As Alexien pondered that, the Greybeards regarded him silently. Finally Arngeir asked again: "As you climbed the mountain, did you read the tablets?"

"We did."

"Tell us, then, Alexien – in your view, which line of the thirty is most important?"

And again Alexien realized that the question was truly a question: Arngeir was not testing him, not expecting that he give the right or the wrong answer. There was no right or wrong answer. Only Alexien's answer, and what that answer said of him for choosing it.

Alexien thought. He felt that the answer _should_ be one of the lines about Jurgen – that would be most appropriate in this context – but those verses did not speak to him. Only one did, the one that had been on his mind ever since he read it. He raised his head and recited: "They spoke only in true need."

One of the other Greybeards shuffled. "A good answer," said Arngeir. "Better, I suspect, than you yet know. And do you believe it?"

"I want to," said Alexien, "though… I'm not sure what it means."

"No? Perhaps… But you will allow me, I hope, one more question?"

"If I do, will you answer mine?"

"Of course. But first I must know the kind of answer you seek."

Alexien gestured for him to go on.

"You said that you came here to know what you are. In your view, then, what are you?"

"A wizard," said Alexien at once. "A knight. Er… a noble."

The Greybeards did not reply. 

Alexien hesitated, before adding: "A vampire. A killer."

Arngeir nodded. "And what are you not?"

In a small, quiet voice: "A monster, I hope."

"I see. Thank you for your honesty. Yes, I think I understand what you are looking for."

"Then… you'll teach me?"

"That was never in doubt," said Arngeir. "Or, rather, that has always depended on you. Do you wish it? Do you want to hear what we can tell you, Dragonborn?"

Alexien took a deep breath. Whatever they said – this was it. After this there would be no going back. After this he couldn't pretend anymore.

He thanked the gods Serana was with him.

"I do," he said. "Tell me – what does it mean that I'm Dragonborn?"

"It means that you are a mortal with the soul of a dragon."

Serana watched Alexien go utterly still. He didn't react at all – he blinked not an eye – he forgot even to breathe.

Finally he let out a laugh. "So it's true," he said. "I _am_ a monster. Just a weapon in the hand of some god –"

" _No, you are not_ ," Arngeir said sharply. Alexien stopped and looked at him, and he went on: "It is true that the dragonblood comes to you from the hand of the gods – perhaps from Akatosh himself. But not because they need a weapon. If the gods wished to destroy, would not flood or earthquake or meteor have better served their purpose?"

"But… why, then?"

"That we cannot tell you," said Arngeir. "But we can lead you on the path where you might learn it for yourself."

Alexien swallowed, nodded.

"Then that path starts here. It is true, is it not, that you have already used the power of the Voice?"

"The Voice? You mean the Words? I knew they were tied to this somehow, but not… What does it matter that I have the soul of a dragon? What does that have to do with this?"

"Everything," said Arngeir. "Have you not guessed what these Words are?"

"I know they're Dovahzul. The language of the dragons, that they taught to their servants in the Dawn Age, that was still spoken –"

"That is true, but not the whole truth."

"What is, then?"

"The Words of Power – which make up the Voice or the Thu'um, which the skilled can employ in Shouts – are indeed the language of the dragons. But they do not come from the dragons: the dragons did not make them. They learned them. For the Voice comprises the very words of creation itself, the words with which in the beginning the gods Spoke the world into being. The Words of Power are the True Names of all that is. They were the gift of the gods to the dragons, the offspring of Akatosh, their servants of old. But they usurped the Voice to themselves, and pretended that it was their own."

Alexien frowned. "Then why is this Voice so connected with dragons?"

"Because dragons – all dragons – are created with an inborn ability to project their will through it," said Arngeir. "Perhaps it is because, in the beginning, they were close to the gods, perhaps because the Eldest of them was witness to creation itself – who knows? Some mortals, indeed, with great patience and long study, can learn to use a few Shouts. But the dragons do not need to learn. What they think, what they feel – they simply _know_ the Words for; and what Words they know, they also intuitively grasp the deepest meaning thereof. For the Voice is part of their being, as much a part of their nature as sight and breath are to ours."

"But that can't be right," said Alexien. "If I'm Dragonborn – if I have the soul of a dragon – I should be able to use the Voice the same way."

"Have you not?"

"No. I've used some of the Words, but… but it hurts. Almost beyond bearing. Like grasping a red-hot iron and using it as a cudgel: effective enough as a weapon, but it hurts me just as much. If I had some kind of inborn affinity with the Voice, it wouldn't be like that."

Arngeir gave a deep sigh. "You are right, and you are wrong. It should not be so. But for you it is. Yes, I have no doubt that it has hurt. For you can use the dragon-speech, but you have not learned to control it; your thoughts can reach out and touch the Words of Power, but your mind cannot contain their meaning. The raw experience of creation, unchecked and ungoverned, flows through your soul. Of course it hurts. And it will, until you advance further along the Way of the Voice."

"What's the Way of the Voice?"

"It is what we can teach you – indeed, the only thing we can teach you."

Alexien pondered that. Before he could think what next to ask, Arngeir spoke again: "I admit, I am curious: how did you first learn that you had this ability?"

"That's…" Alexien did not want to tell them that. But concealment would not help him, and a lie would be worst of all. "From a Daedra. I was facing battle with an enemy I could not have defeated, and Hermaeus Mora revealed it to me as the only way for me to win."

At that, all the Greybeards looked around at one another.

Arngeir sighed again. "Alas – worse even than I had feared. But it is not surprising, that one of the Daedra should so seek to turn you aside before ever you found the path." He thought. "But that cannot have been all of it. The Words that you used, you must have learned each of them somewhere. Unless Hermaeus Mora gave you that knowledge as well?"

"No," said Alexien, with a shiver. "No, I learned those in other ways. There are… You probably know more about them than I do, but in our travels, Serana and I have found certain inscriptions around Skyrim. Walls written with dragon-speech. With some of them, I just _knew_ what they meant."

"Indeed?" Arngeir looked surprised for the first time. "Without having studied them?"

"Well, yes. I assume it's the same for you Greybeards."

"It is not. Every Word that we learn comes to us only by meditation and long practice. Drop by slow drop is their meaning infused into our souls. To grasp the Words as you do, immediately and intuitively – that is given only to the dragons themselves, and to the Dragonborn."

Alexien shivered again. His mind raced, and he thought also of Durnehviir – but something held him back from mentioning that. Besides which, he felt as though there was something he was forgetting, something important he had wanted to ask them. Finally he remembered. He opened his pack and pulled out the roll of paper on which he had copied the Dovahzul inscription from Bleak Falls Barrow.

He held the roll out to Arngeir. "That reminds me: this was on a stele that we found near a Dragon Priest. Can you read it?"

Arngeir took the scroll, glanced over it, sighed, and handed it back to Alexien. "No."

"No?"

"It is not the way of the Greybeards," said Arngeir. "The words of the Voice were only ever written down by the dragons and their servants. How can I explain it? We pass down what we know only by means of the living word, master to student. The written word is both dead and dangerous. Anyone who wishes to learn it may do so, without following the Way of the Voice; and then they may do great evil – to themselves, no less than to others."

"There's the Way of the Voice again," said Alexien. "What is it?"

"That I will begin to show you tomorrow, if you wish; but we have spoken enough for one night. You have already much to meditate upon." Arngeir turned and stretched out a hand, inviting Alexien to follow him. "Will you stay with us here at High Hrothgar, Dragonborn, and learn what we may teach you?"

Alexien hesitated. He glanced back at Serana. She was still there, standing just a step or two behind him, and she gave him a nod.

He turned back to Arngeir. "We will stay."

* * *

The first thing that the Greybeards taught him was a myth.

Alexien might freely regard the myth itself as true or false, Arngeir said. He himself believed that it was literally and exactly true. But its literal truth was beside the point: what Alexien must grasp was its deeper meaning, the meaning that the myth still whispered to his heart – to him, to Alexien, not to some scholar writing a comparative history of mythology.

This, then, was the myth. In the beginning, after the Aedra had shaped Mundus and then withdrawn from the confines of the world, they left behind them the dragons, the greatest of created beings, to rule and safeguard Nirn on their behalf; and their leader was Alduin, the Eldest, firstborn of Akatosh. For the dragons were mighty with the Voice, and they spoke only in true need: not their own, but that of others. And so they spoke but rarely, and sat most often in silence; for the power of their Voice could break the foundations of the world.

But in time they saw the weakness of men and mer and beastfolk, and learned their own strength, and that none now remained in the world who could hold them to account. Alduin was the first to use the Voice for his own ends, but soon all the dragons followed him; and they forced the mortal races to serve them, and all who resisted they Shouted down.

But Kynareth had pity. The power of the Aedra had gone out from them into the making of Mundus, and she could not overcome Alduin of herself; but to men she gave the only help she still had to give: she bestowed on them the Voice. Then raged the Dragon War, a time of ruin, when the world was broken in the struggles between mortalkind and dragons; but in the end the dragons were defeated.

Then humans in turn looked on themselves, and knew that they were strong; and they spread out across Tamriel, and with the power of the Voice they crushed all who would defy them. Then they came to Red Mountain, where were marshalled against them the houses of the Chimer, and their hearts were proud and fearless – but on that day the Voice failed them, and their strength was as grass. And it was whispered that Shor, Lorkhan, the special god of mankind, had sided with their foes.

Jurgen Windcaller, mighty among the human Tongues who knew the Voice, was present that day, and saw how they had been humbled, and knew it was deservedly: for they, like the dragons before them, had twisted the Voice to their own ends. Jurgen came to the Throat of the World, and the other Tongues could not withstand him; for his strength was the strength of elder days, now that he had found again the Way of the Voice. And so he built High Hrothgar, to teach the Way.

"But what is the Way of the Voice?" Alexien asked.

"To walk in wisdom and silence," said Arngeir. "To speak only in true need. It is the path from which the dragons turned aside in the beginning."

And this message – not the power to call forth fire or ice, none of the forces of destruction – the Greybeards seemed to regard as the most important thing they had to teach.

Of the Words of Power they spoke to him indeed, and taught Alexien many of the True Names of creation; but that was only a small part of his training. They would have Alexien sit outside in the snow, meditating by himself for hours in all weather; and they bade him listen, as they said, to the voice of the wind, bade him feel on his skin sun and rain, storm and starlight. 

For obvious reasons, Alexien did not particularly enjoy sitting beneath the sun, but he followed their directions nonetheless. Something about the practice seemed to suit him.

Serana, of course, took part in everything Alexien did. At first she watched, not without some amusement, as whenever Alexien started meditating he would grow restless and impatient, drumming his fingers on his leg, opening his eyes to look around, forcing them shut tight again. But after the first week or so, he grew almost calm. He would give Serana a smile before he sat down, then close his eyes and not move a muscle for the rest of the evening; and when he was finished he would rise and talk excitedly with Arngeir.

Apparently he was learning a lot of something. Serana, not so much. Whatever deeper meaning there was in nature that revealed itself to Alexien when he was meditating, it stayed resolutely hidden to her.

One night, when Alexien was sitting quietly inside the monastery, Serana went for a walk outside, out of boredom as much as anything. Nothing in all the world could have dragged her away from Alexien or made her wish she was anywhere else – she only wished she could actually do something to help.

The night was cold, up here on the mountain; but the stars were bright overhead. Serana stopped and lay back on a broken piece of wall, just to stare up at the sky and be alone with her thoughts.

"I hope I am not interrupting?"

Serana sat up. It was Arngeir.

"You are," she said. "But that's not necessarily a bad thing."

He gestured at the stone wall. "May I?" She nodded, and he took a seat next to her. For a while he just looked up at the stars with her.

"Shouldn't you be with Alexien?" Serana asked.

"He is with Master Einarth now," said Arngeir. "Though, truth be told, he needs our supervision little enough. I fear what we have to teach him may soon be coming to an end."

Serana snorted. "What, you guys devote your whole lives to studying this Way of the Voice, and he masters it in a few weeks?"

"By no means," he said, chuckling. "But we have shown him where the Way is. When he leaves us and goes back out into the world, it is up to him to walk it himself. That, we cannot do for him." He paused. "And his progress has indeed been remarkable."

"Yeah," said Serana. "Remarkable."

"Whereas you are frustrated."

Serana raised an eyebrow. Arngeir held up his hands. "Forgive me, I mean no offense. But we know the look of someone who feels lost. No one ever comes to us except the lost."

She bit back a sharp reply and sighed. "Yeah. I just… I don't get why this is so easy for him, and so hard for me. We've always been able to help each other out. But not with this."

Arngeir gave her an encouraging nod.

"Before we came here, he tried to teach me to use some of the Words," she went on. "I asked him to. But I couldn't get it. I almost managed to do _something_ – once. But this just isn't in me."

"And it makes you feel no better, I assume, to point out that it comes easily for him because he is Dragonborn, and you are not; and that it is impressive that you should be able to do even that much so quickly."

"Yeah, not really."

"How about this, then: you also have your own gifts that he does not."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he has told us so. When he is frustrated – for of course he gets frustrated as well – and believes that he can't do this, he says that he has only come so far because of you."

Serana lay back down, hands behind her head, and looked up again at the stars. "Lovable idiot."

Arngeir chuckled again, then they both fell silent.

"There was something I've been meaning to say to you," said Serana after a while, sitting up. Arngeir gestured for her to continue. "You've all been surprisingly tolerant of two vampires."

"Have we?"

"Well, yeah. Normally religious types like you are much more into smiting. And they use a lot more words like 'abomination' and 'corruption' and 'must be cleansed.'"

"And are you thanking us for being tolerant, or distrusting our motives for being so?"

"…Both, I guess."

Arngeir took a long time to respond. "Our master says often, that everyone's worst enemy is within them, and we all must struggle against it. Some more than others. But no one ever knows, from the outside, how hard anyone else's struggle has been."

Serana was silent a while. "Your master?" she asked finally. "I kind of assumed you were the leader of the Greybeards. Have we met him yet?"

"Not yet," said Arngeir, smiling sadly. "He lives alone at the top of the mountain."

"Why?"

"His Voice is too powerful to risk in the society of others. He is better off on his own, where he can meditate in peace and tranquillity. Or at least, that is what he has said."

"You don't think that's his real reason?"

"No. No, I think that he lives there alone as a form of penance. That he feels he must punish himself for the evil that he did in the past, before he found the Way." Arngeir gave her a smile. "So, you see, Serana – I think he would understand you."

She just stared at him a moment. Then she gave a bark of laughter. "You think I'm punishing myself because of how guilty I feel for being a vampire?"

He shook his head. "I think you feel guilty because you are _not_ punishing yourself. Because you are happy, and do not believe you deserve to be."

Serana blinked.

While she was still deciding how to answer that, Arngeir stood up and gave her a bow. "Just something to think on. I hope you will remember it after you leave us."

And he walked away, and left Serana alone again with her thoughts.

* * *

It was the last day of Alexien's training. They had been on High Hrothgar for nearly a month. This final morning, Arngeir had made it a point to invite all the rest of the Greybeards as well as Serana to the main hall of the monastery.

Arngeir was whispering with the other Greybeards, low and quick, when Serana and Alexien entered. He stopped suddenly. One of the others – Serana thought it was Master Einarth – gave him a nod, and Arngeir turned to face Alexien.

"Your progress has indeed been impressive," he said. "We have heard of the power of a Dragonborn, but to see it ourselves… Years of constant practice are required for the rest of us to learn even the simplest Shout, but for you it seems all but effortless."

"I don't know how I do it," said Alexien. "It just happens."

"Indeed. For the Thu'um is part of your nature, as it is for the dragons themselves."

Alexien paused. He felt Serana move closer beside him. "Because I have the soul of a dragon," he said. "But we haven't talked much about what that actually means. About why the dragons have returned."

"Because that we do not know," answered Arngeir. "Though you are right beyond all doubt to surmise that it has something to do with you. The reappearance of a Dragonborn at this point in time, after the line of the Dragonborn Emperors has failed, is no accident; your destiny cannot but be bound up with the return of the dragons."

"We were hoping you would know the connection."

"I am sorry. The only advice I can offer is that you continue to hone your Voice, and by the will of the gods your path will become clear." Arngeir hesitated. "There is, however, as you have doubtless guessed, knowledge that we have not yet shared with you, that we must share with you before you leave High Hrothgar."

Alexien nodded, unsurprised.

"It was not yet time to reveal to you this secret. For it is a dangerous truth, and one that has led astray Dragonborns before you. We worry indeed that of it you have already inferred much; but your patience gives us hope."

"It has to do with when we killed Mirmulnir at Whiterun. And Durnehviir, before him."

Arngeir closed his eyes. "Yes. For there is another ability that the dragons possess, one which gives the greatest of them their terrible mastery of the Voice. Tradition tells that Alduin himself was the first to discover it – but whether by accident or intent, none know. For if a dragon kills another dragon, then all the knowledge, all the power, all the Voice of the slain, become the possession of the slayer."

Alexien still seemed unsurprised. Arngeir fixed him with a serious look and continued: "Perhaps you perceive this much already, for your own case. But have you considered what it means? Can you imagine what carnage of ambition the dragons have wrought among themselves in the past, when they realized that they could grow mighty by the death of their kin? Can you imagine what such knowledge has done to many a Dragonborn before you, Alexien? For this power of the dragons – the curse of their strength – belongs also to the Dragonborn."

Serana shifted uncomfortably. Alexien opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. A small shiver went through him.

Arngeir came nearer and put a hand on Alexien's shoulder. "You see? Your destiny is also your greatest danger. If it is your purpose to stop the dragons…"

"Then I risk becoming what they are," said Alexien. His voice trembled. "What Alduin was. Even if I'm not a monster now, I could be."

"That, ultimately, is up to you, and you alone. But… yes."

"That's why you've stressed the Way of the Voice. As long as I cling to that…"

"As long as you follow the Way of the Voice, yes, the peril to your soul will be the less. But make no mistake: once you leave us, the Way will not be easy. The higher your rise, the further may be your fall."

It took Alexien some time to study his breathing. Serana put a comforting hand between his shoulders.

"Thank you," he said finally. He gave a deep and sincere bow towards the Greybeards. "Thank you for your teaching. I will try not to forget it."

"There is one more thing that we may do for you, if you wish it," said Arngeir hesitatingly. "But not yet. There is a ritual, a ceremony; a kind of proclamation."

Alexien looked up. "It's what you did for Tiber Septim," he said, remembering the tablet. "When you summoned him and named him Dovahkiin."

The Greybeards shuffled – uneasily, it seemed to Serana.

"Yes," Arngeir answered. "It is something of an anointing ceremony. It announces to the world that you are the Dragonborn, that you are the one whom your destiny has appointed you to be."

Alexien only nodded.

"Then you must visit the tomb of Jurgen Windcaller, who is buried at Ustengrav, and bring back to us his horn. This may seem only symbolic, but is a gesture meant to show –"

"I understand," said Alexien. "I'll get it. Though I don't know how soon we'll be able to return."

"Whenever you return, we will be waiting for you, Alexien." Arngeir bowed. "May the peace of Kyne go with you both."

Alexien bowed back, then turned, took Serana's offered hand, and went with her out from High Hrothgar.


End file.
